Heartbeat
by woodsbaile
Summary: It's a horrible dejavu for Sam and Dean. But something's not right, in a supernatural way. Warning: major spoilers for Faith. Reviews are welcomed. :
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: Don't own them, bla, bla, bla… We all know the drill.

Warnings: I did my best, but this is unbetaed, and I'm Italian, so please excuse any errors.

**Heartbeat**

PART 1 

Dean Winchester cursed vehemently under his breath as he attempted to shake some of the mud off his leather jacked and his boots so as not to dirty the interior of his beloved car.

Standing leaning on the passenger door, his brother Sam grinned, amused.

"Dude, I sure could mistake you for a swamp monster or something right now," he said.

"Oh, shut up," Dean growled as they climbed into the Impala. "Why does it always have to be me that gets covered up in squishy yucky things?"

"That's because you're clumsy," Sam grinned again.

Dean glared at him.

"Clumsy? Oh, shut up," he growled once more as he started the engine.

They drove in silence for a while, letting Metallica do all the talking as the music pumped through the radio.

Dean grimaced slightly and let go of the wheel with a hand to work his right shoulder.

"You okay, man?" Sam asked, giving him a sideways glance.

"Yeah, just a little stiff."

"Want me to drive?"

"Nah, I'm good." He sighed wearily. "This sure was a mean one," he said, referring to the specter they had gotten rid of that night.

"Yeah, well, we're meaner," Sam stated with confidence. "What?" he asked when he noticed Dean staring at him.

"Nothing," his brother said, grinning slightly as he took his gaze back to the road. "I just never thought I'd hear such Rambo-like statements coming out of your mouth, college boy."

Sam glared at him as he sunk down in his seat.

"Oh, shut up."

_Sam swallowed hard as he looked at his brother lying in the hospital bed, the dark circles around his eyes the only color on his ghastly face. _

_He knew Dean had noticed him, but he wouldn't acknowledge his presence, adverting his gaze as he stared blankly at the TV screen. _

"_Have you ever actually watched daytime TV?" he said at last, voice tired and scratchy. "It's terrible." _

_Sam shook his head and sighed heavily. _

"_I talked to your doctor." _

_His voice was already breaking. He hated it, but he couldn't help it: the man's words were still stuck in his stomach, and they hurt like a sharp knife. _

"We can't work miracles."

_When Sam had heard those words, he'd been sure _he_ was the one dying, they hurt so much. _

"_That fabric softener teddy bear… Oh, I'm gonna hunt that little bitch down." _

_Still ignoring the subject. Still ignoring _him.

"_Dean." _

_Soft, firm, pleading. _

_And Dean gave in. _

"_Yeah," he sighed, in a way that was more like a moan really, as he turned the TV off and let the remote fall at his side. "Alright, well…" Dean finally looked up, finally looking at him, and sighed again, and only now did Sam realize that he was just trying to draw in a decent breath. "Looks like you're gonna leave town without me." _

_Sam stared at him in disbelief, smiling nervously, incredulously. _

"_What are you talking about? I'm not gonna leave you here." _

"_Hey," Dean interrupted him seriously. "You better take care of that car, or I swear I'll haunt your ass."_

"_I don't think that's funny," Sam said, snarling in pain, voice cracking again. _

"_Oh, come on, it's a little funny," Dean said, pretending he didn't care, pretending it didn't hurt. But he lowered his gaze for a second, and that was enough for Sam to see through it all. Not that he hadn't, already. _

_The younger Winchester looked down and shook his head, then he turned to look out of the window, not really seeing anything, just blinking back tears, because he knew Dean didn't need to see them. Not right now. _

_They were silent for long moments. Sam didn't want to turn. He didn't want to see the pain he knew would find in Dean's eyes if he only managed to catch him off guard. _

_It was Dean who broke the silence then. _

"_Look, Sammy, what can I say, man? It's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That's it, end of story." _

"_Don't talk like that, alright?" Sam tried to snap, but it just came out desperate. _

_It was enough though for Dean to frown and look at him worriedly. _Worriedly_… Sam's stomach dropped lower, if possible. Dean was dying, and yet there he was, trying to make _him_ feel better. _

"_We still have options," Sam said then, and despite his voice still being soft with pain and worry, there was a steely note of determination in there. _

_Dean frowned, and it was then that Sam saw the fear in his brother's eyes. Fear, and a little bit of anger, too. _

"_What options? Yeah, burial or cremation." _

_Sam looked at him, appalled at the way he kept talking, as if it didn't matter, as if he'd already given up. He couldn't take that. Not from Dean. Dean never gave up. Never. _

_The younger brother looked away, shaking his head in denial. _

"_And I know it's not easy, but…" Dean went on, looking away himself and then lifting his gaze back up to his brother, pinning him with his eyes. "I'm gonna die." A small smile. Bitter, resigned, and trying to look reassuring. "And you can't stop it." _

_Sam's eyes hardened, and he had to swallow a few times before his face wrinkled up in a snarl. _

"_Watch me." _

Sam opened his eyes with a small gasp, still feeling the anguish from the nightmare, no, the _memory_, weighing at the pit of his stomach.

"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asked, giving him a sideways glance as he kept driving.

"It's Sam," the younger brother grumbled, sitting up straight.

"Yup, you're okay," Dean nodded with a small grin. "So where to, little brother?"

"What?"

"You just had a vision, right?"

"Nope." Sam shook his head with a sigh. "No vision, it was just a nightmare."

"Oh." Dean was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. "Care to share?"

"It's okay," Sam murmured, looking out of the window.

Dean nodded silently.

"Look, Sammy…" he began then, hesitantly. "I know you miss her. And I just wish I…"

"It wasn't about Jess," Sam interrupted.

Dean cast him another sideways look.

"What?"

"It wasn't about Jess," Sam repeated, running a hand wearily over his face. "It was about you," he said in a whisper.

"So what, am I about to get strung up by a ghost?" Dean grinned, trying to lighten the mood in his usual way. "Well at least I hope it'll be the ghost of a beautiful woman."

"Dean! Stop it," Sam snapped harshly. "It's not funny, dammit."

"Okay, okay," Dean said quickly, shooting a concerned look at his brother. "What was it about?"

"It's no big deal."

"Well, excuse me, I just happen to care about my death."

"You weren't dead," Sam hurried to say, not daring to think about the possibility.

"I wasn't? Dude, that's a nice change. Your dreams are always so… gloomy."

"No, you weren't dead. But you were dying."

"There we go. I knew it was too good," Dean sighed dramatically. "So," he asked then, "what happened to me?"

Sam stopped staring at the landscape to look at his brother, stunned.

"How can you be so calm about it?"

"You said it yourself, it wasn't a vision. So I don't see any reason to panic, Sammy."

"You were dying!" Sam snapped. "You were dying and all you could say was 'I drew the short straw'. I hate it when you do that. You were dying and yet you were trying to make _me_ feel better! I hated that!"

Dean stared at him, totally taken aback by the outburst. That was months ago. Sam couldn't possibly still be having _nightmares_ about it, could he? He should've expected this. He should've tried to make his brother talk. He should've been more sensitive to how that experience had affected him. He should've… protected him better. Although Sam didn't seem to appreciate that. Irritation crept onto him.

"Well, excuse me if I didn't want you to see me panicking on top of seeing me dying," he snapped back harshly.

Sam looked at him and sighed.

"Dean, I didn't mean it like that," he said softly.

"I know."

Dean sighed as he pulled the car over, and turned in his seat to look at his brother.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said.

"Tell you what?"

"That you're having nightmares about it."

"Because they had stopped," Sam admitted. "I hadn't dreamt of that for a very long time. I don't know why it all came back now."

Dean didn't, either. So he didn't try to find an answer.

"Yeah, well, sometimes the mind plays tricks. But hey," he smiled reassuringly, "I'm here, I'm okay. And I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. You're stuck with me, Sammy."

Sam gave him a small smile.

"I'm glad I am," he said softly.

"Oh, man…" Dean groaned. "I swear, if you try to hug me, I'm gonna kill you."

Sam laughed, and then he became serious once again.

"Dean… If you'd allowed me to see you panicking… What would you have said? I mean, what…"

"Look, Sam," Dean interrupted, starting back the engine. "I've been driving all night, I'm tired and I'm still covered up in mud. I just wanna crash, okay?"

Sam sighed. Conversation on that subject was over. He should have known.

"Okay," he said. "Want me to drive for a while, so you can rest a bit?"

"No, thanks, I'm good."

"_Yeah, Dean," _Sam thought as he resumed looking out of the window. _"You're always good." _

Sam watched his brother sleeping. He wished he could do the same, but no matter how hard he tried, sleep just wouldn't come.

He got up and went to the window, absently looking at the cafe just across the street, right in front of the motel.

Gettysburg, South Dakota. It was a quiet town, and he was glad they could finally get some proper rest after their last adventure in Aberdeen.

He heard Dean shift and inhale deeply behind him.

"Sammy?" his brother's voice, still rough from sleep, called a moment later. "What is it?"

Sam turned and smiled.

"Nothing, Dean. Go back to sleep."

Dean eyed him warily for a few moments, then he turned with a groan.

Just when Sam thought he had fallen back to sleep, he spoke again.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"If you don't get some sleep yourself I'm gonna knock you out."

"Alright, man, I'm going," Sam chuckled, effectively climbing back in his bed. "You sure are a pain in the ass when you're worried."

"I'm not worried," Dean said, voice already slurring. "I'm just practical: you're awful cranky when you don't get enough sleep."

"Dean, I almost never get enough sleep."

"Exactly."

Sam was about to make some retort when he noticed his brother's breath had evened out. Shooting a mock glare at the sleeping form, he got more comfortable and closed his eyes, already knowing that he wouldn't be sleeping a wink.

Moments later, he was snoring softly.

Dean stirred and opened his eyes, frowning slightly at the sunlight that hit them straight away. He turned and glanced at the clock, frowning deeper at the numbers. 5.00 PM.

"_Oh man… How long did I sleep?" _he thought, swinging his legs over the mattress.

He glanced at the other bed and wasn't surprised to find it empty.

As he stood up he was hit by a slight wave of dizziness.

Sam emerged from the bathroom, buttoning up a clean shirt, just in time to see his brother sway and grab the table for balance.

"Dean!" the younger Winchester cried, rushing forward and grabbing his brother's arm to steady him. "What is it?"

Dean blinked a few times, frowning at how lightheaded he was feeling.

"It's nothing, Sam, I'm fine. Just still half-asleep, I guess," he smiled reassuringly at his brother.

"I don't think so," Sam argued, eyeing him worriedly. "You're pale, dude, and you're sweating."

"I'm okay, man, you don't have to fuss," Dean grumbled, shoving him away.

As soon as Sam let go of him though, dizziness assaulted him again. His vision started blurring at the edges and he blinked again, desperately. Then it was like he was suddenly drained of every ounce of his strength, and Sam's frantic voice calling his name was the last thing he heard as he crumpled to the floor.

"DEAN!"

Sam panicked when he saw what little color his brother had left draining from his face and his body just going limp all of a sudden.

He rushed forward and caught Dean before he could hit the floor, cradling his head in the crook of his arm.

"Dean!" he called, gently starting to pat his brother's clammy cheek. "Dean, come on, man, wake up. Come on… Answer me, damn you… Open your eyes, Dean… Dean!"

Why he was so scared, he didn't know. His brother didn't have any wound, didn't have any fever… He was probably just exhausted after last night's fight. But the memory's images were still fresh on Sam's mind, just as the anguish was still fresh in his guts.

Forcing himself to calm down and snap out of it, Sam dragged Dean up and eased him back on the bed. Then he went to the bathroom, filled a bucket with cool water and grabbed a washcloth.

Hurrying back to his brother's side, he dampened the washcloth and started running it gently over Dean's face, all the while calling his name.

"Come on, wake up…" he murmured. "Please. Please Dean, wake up."

It wasn't long before Dean frowned and groaned softly under the cool touch of the water.

"Dean?" Sam called, relieved, resuming his patting of his brother's cheek. "That's it, man, wake up. Nice and easy. Wake up."

Dean opened his eyes and blinked, licking his lips.

"Sam?" he said in a rough voice. "What the hell happened?"

"You passed out, you jerk, that's what happened."

"Why do you make it sound like it was my fault?" Dean grumbled, sitting up.

"Take it easy, Dean," Sam warned, putting a hand to his chest.

"I'm fine," he declared, swatting Sam's hand away.

And Sam had to concede that his brother wasn't probably lying this time. The color had gone back to his face, he wasn't sweating anymore, and he sounded stronger than ever.

"Man, you sure gave me a scare back there," he said as he watched Dean get up and start to get dressed.

The older Winchester lifted an eyebrow and his trademark cocky grin appeared on his face.

"You worry too much, Sammy."

Dean smiled slightly to himself, enjoying the chatter going on in the little cafe. The waiter brought their meal and he had to regret once more that it wasn't a waitress.

His stomach grumbled at the sight of the food. Man, he had been craving a hamburger.

He was about to get at it when he looked up and noticed Sam staring at him. Again.

"Sam, I swear, you don't stop looking at me like that, I'm gonna punch you in the face," he said matter-of-factly.

"Sorry," Sam said with a small grin. "It's just…"

"Sam, I'm fine," Dean said for what he felt was the hundredth time. "It was nothing."

"Yeah, I know," the younger man said, lowering his gaze.

Dean frowned. He couldn't quite see why it was that Sam had been left so shaken by a mere blackout. And then it hit him. He stared at his brother appalled for a few seconds before speaking up.

"Wait a minute… Is this about the nightmare you've had this morning?" he asked in disbelief.

"No," Sam said, a little too quickly, right hand shooting out nervously to grab the mayonnaise.

"Man, I can't believe it!" Dean cried. "Hey, look at me," he said then, firmly. When Sam looked up uncertainly, he went on. "I'm fine, okay? My heart's okay. _I'm_ okay. Hell, Sam, you know that."

"Yeah, I know, but…" Sam trailed off.

"But…?"

Sam drew in a deep breath.

"I don't know, man… I mean, I know you're right, I really do. And I know it was stupid… but you really scared me earlier."

"It wasn't stupid, Sam," Dean reassured. "But I don't want you to worry: I'm fine," he said once more.

Sam nodded and smiled, somehow feeling a lot better. Dean could do that, put his fears and worries to rest with just a few chosen sentences.

"Oh no…" Dean groaned, and Sam looked up, startled. "Please tell me you're not about to do what it looks like you're about to do."

Sam frowned at him, then noticed that his brother was looking at the mayonnaise still held in his hand and grinned broadly.

"Of course I am," he said, lifting the bread and splashing the sauce over his hamburger.

"Man, that's so barbaric," Dean grumbled.

Sam chuckled, and then his smile softened as he lowered his gaze once more.

"You know… Jessica used to tell me the exact same words. She thought putting mayonnaise on a hamburger is the eighth capital sin."

"Smart girl," Dean nodded approvingly, munching at his own hamburger.

"Yeah…" Sam whispered hoarsely. "Yeah, she was."

Dean looked sadly at his brother, and felt the familiar guilt coming up to eat him inside. But he didn't want Sam to see it, so he took a swig from his beer and swallowed it down, like he always did.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2

Sam thought this was very atypical. The two of them just walking aimlessly in the streets of a quiet little town without any supernatural research waiting for them felt almost awkward.

"Wow…" he breathed, astounded. "This almost feels like… normal."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked, giving him a sideways glance.

"When was the last time we've taken a walk without merrily heading somewhere to burn old bones down or digging into dusty libraries?"

"Yeah, you're right."

Sam turned to Dean, a small frown on his face. His brother's voice had been distant, and a little strained, too.

The unsettling feeling came back, and Sam found his stomach in knots once again. Dean was pale, and he seemed to have trouble breathing as his hand rubbed unconsciously at his chest.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam asked, concerned.

Dean smiled a little distractedly.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam was totally unconvinced, but he decided to let it slide for the time being. A few steps later though, Dean stumbled, and Sam grabbed his arm quickly.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he said anxiously.

Dean closed his eyes briefly and swallowed.

"_Shit…"_

He thought he knew what was going on, but he still hoped he was wrong.

"I think I'd better sit down, Sam," he managed to say, gasping.

Sam was all but panicking by the time he practically carried Dean to a nearby bench. For those interminable seconds, he had been waiting for a complaint, a smirk, a flicker of the eyes, a trademark "I'm good"… anything that would have told him his brother was indeed okay. But none came. Instead, Dean just sat down gratefully and doubled over, panting, hand pressed against his chest.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam called again, at a loss of what to do.

Dean looked up to him and managed a small smile.

"I think I'm trouble, Sammy," he gasped.

And before Sam had any chance to ask anything else, his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Mr. Evans?"

Sam had an awful sense of deja-vu as he stood up to meet the doctor.

"How is he?" he asked, hating that his voice was already breaking.

"Let's take a seat," the doctor, a forty-something man with a kind face said, pointing to the seat Sam has just vacated.

The younger Winchester obeyed, feeling his gut clench painfully.

"Your brother suffered from a major heart attack," the man began slowly.

"_Oh God…" _

Sam's stomach rolled slowly, and for a moment he felt he was going to be sick.

"His heart is damaged…"

"Wait, wait," Sam stopped him, holding up a hand. "This can't be, doc."

The doctor eyed him confusedly.

"I'm sorry?"

"He… uh… he's suffered one before…"

"A heart attack?" the man said, now looking almost upset. "Quite this massive?"

Sam nodded.

"But that's impossible!" the doctor cried. "See, there was no sign this ever happened before to your brother. It seems like this one heart attack came out of nowhere."

"Look, doctor…" Sam eyed his ID, "Jackson. I know this sounds crazy, but about six months ago, my brother suffered a heart attack due to an accident involving electrocuting. Then he… uh… he was healed."

"Healed?" Doctor Jackson repeated, looking curious. "Healed how?"

"Doctors couldn't explain it," Sam said, carefully avoiding any hint on the subject. "They said it was a miracle. Now you're telling me he… all of a sudden…" He stopped, unable to go on. This couldn't be happening again. It just couldn't.

"We're baffled, too," the man said kindly. "A young, strong heart such as that of a 26-year-old, giving out like that…"

"But there is something you can do, right?" Sam asked, clinging desperately to hope.

Doctor Jackson looked at the young man in front of him, sawing the pain and the despair in his eyes. But she saw also hope shining in those irises, and he hated himself for having to shatter it.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

And Sam could only stare, horrified, as his world came crashing down.

Dean lay in the hospital bed, ghastly pale, dark circles under his eyes, IVs and tubes all around him.

Everything rushed back to Sam, and he had to swallow hard and make a conscious effort to order his leaden legs into movement.

Dean opened his eyes at his approach and gave him a weak smile.

"Hey Sammy."

His voice was just as weak.

"Hey," Sam said, dragging a chair up by the bed and trying to smile back. Of course, he failed miserably. "I talked to your doctor." He actually flinched at that. He was even using the exact same words. His stomach gave another roll, and he knew with absolute certainty that he was going to throw up before the day was over.

"Yeah, looks like we're back at square one."

Sam looked at his brother, shocked by his attitude, although he couldn't say it was quite unexpected.

"You say something about short straws again, I swear I'm gonna kick your ass," he joked lamely, and he wasn't entirely sure he didn't mean every word.

Dean said nothing. He had to find a way, any way, to make Sam understand, to make Sam _accept_.

He put his hand over his brother's.

"Sam."

Sam looked up, not liking the tone in his brother's voice.

"You can't fix this. Not this time."

Soft, strong, firm. Dean's voice was all this and more, and Sam felt his anger starting to mount up.

"I will," he said, jaw setting stubbornly, his hand slipping away from under his brother's.

"Sam…"

"I'll find a way. Any way."

"No!"

Sam startled and looked at Dean, watching his distressed features, seeing the plea in his eyes.

"You leave this alone, you hear me?" Dean growled. "You let this take its course."

Sam was about to retort angrily, when something in Dean's eyes stopped him. It was fear. And the realization of what that fear was about hit the younger Winchester fast and hard.

He sighed heavily.

"Dean, it won't be like last time," he said softly. "I'll find a way, a safe one. But I gotta try."

"Look, Sam, how many times has supernatural done any good to us?" Dean asked pointedly.

"Dean…"

"Answer me, Sam."

Sam let out a puff of air.

"Almost never."

"Yeah," Dean said darkly.

"But Dean, this can't be right," Sam said after a moment of silence. "You were healed."

Dean gave a bitter chuckle at that.

"It's probably all about karma."

Sam frowned, puzzled.

"What?"

Dean licked his lips and looked away.

"We both know what happened in Nebraska was wrong. We both know I shouldn't be here." He paused and grinned bitterly. "Payback's a bitch."

Sam stared at him, overcome by the guilt he could hear in Dean's voice and see in those green irises. After all that time, Dean still hadn't let go of the guilt, and Sam wondered how many times his brother had been fighting against it and he hadn't noticed.

He swallowed hard.

"Dean, it wasn't your fault. You have to understand that, you have to let it go. Remember shortly after Jess died? You told me I couldn't keep my anger burning, you told me it was going to kill me." He paused. "The same goes for your guilt. You don't let go of it, it's gonna kill you."

Dean wanted to say that it didn't matter, that his heart was going to kill him way faster than his guilt anyway, but he didn't, for Sam's sake.

He just stared into space and said nothing, which ended up frustrating Sam probably as much as voicing his thoughts would have.

"Dean, I will find a way, and it won't be like in Nebraska," Sam said again. "But you gotta let me try. What would you do if it was me lying there?"

That got Dean's attention. The older Winchester flinched imperceptibly.

"_What would I do if it was Sam?" _he pondered silently._ "Well, I'd probably… I… Dammit." _

He looked up at his brother and gave him a glimpse of his usual smirk.

"When the hell did you get so sly, college boy?"

Sam chuckled, relieved.

"I've learned from the best." He paused. "So we're okay?"

"I didn't know we were having a fight," Dean grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Shut up." He reached out and squeezed his brother's arm before getting up. "Get some rest, I'll be back soon."

"Sam," Dean called when he was almost at the door.

Sam turned, and read Dean's thoughts clearly in his eyes.

"No dark rites, I promise," he assured with a smile, and Dean nodded, closing his eyes and allowing sleep to claim him.

As he made his way through the E.R., two nurses shook their heads as a stretcher carrying a middle-aged man was rushed past them.

"That's horrible," one of them sighed sadly.

"Poor Henry," the other echoed. "And to think that he had won his battle…"

Sam froze and turned to them, a shiver of foreboding running down his spine.

"Excuse me," he said, "I really don't mean to pry, but… what's wrong with that man?"

They smiled kindly at him, recognizing the distressed young man that had spent two hours in the E.R. waiting for news on his brother.

"Lung cancer," the older nurse said. "His wife said he collapsed this morning but that he woke up a few minutes later and he seemed fine."

"Turns out, he wasn't," the younger one supplied. "It's so unfair… He had beaten the cancer, you see. Two years ago. It seemed to have been completely defeated." She shook her head. "Poor Henry," she repeated.

Sam stared at them in shock for a moment before managing to snap out of it.

"I'm sorry," he said, then he hurried out of the hospital.

His mind worked furiously as he walked back to the motel. That man, Henry, had collapsed that morning, seemingly like Dean had that late afternoon. And his cancer was back, out of nowhere, just like Dean's heart failure.

Sam was still frowning as he turned the key in the lock. Dean's heart and that man's lungs… It just couldn't be a coincidence. Something was going on, and he was determined to find out exactly what.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Hi guys! Sorry for the late update, but my adsl line went out for almost a week. I'm back now and chapter three's up and running! I hope you enjoy and I also wish to say a big THANK YOU to all my reviewers. I really appreciated each and every of your comment and I want to thank you for stopping by to read and taking the time to leave me a note.

---

PART 3

Sam stared at the phone in his hand. Quite unsurprisingly, he had just thrown up in the motel bathroom, and now felt mercifully drained. Drained was good, because it led to numbness, which was a welcome substitute for the pain that had been searing his abdomen for hours.

Now the younger Winchester just sat on the bed, staring blankly at his cell phone, finger held loosely over the call button, the number ready on the display.

"_Hey Dad, it's Sam. Uh… You probably won't get this, but… uh… it's Dean. He's sick and… doctors say there's nothing they can do… uh… But… they don't know things we know, right? … uh… So… don't worry, 'cause I… uh… I'll do whatever it takes to get him better. All right… just wanted you to know." _

He blinked, and the memory of his own voice faded.

It all felt so unreal… after six months…

"Back at square one," he muttered darkly, echoing Dean's words earlier at the hospital. His finger finally moved and he brought the phone to his ear. "Dad? It's Sam." _"I damn well know you won't call back,"_ he added angrily to himself. Aloud he said, "It's Dean." Sam choked on the words as his throat constricted. The pain was back.

---

_Dean watched the burning disappointment that washed over Layla's face; he watched the pain and the cruel, desperate accusation in her mother's eyes as she turned to him, feeling her contempt boring through him. _

"_Why are you still even here? You got what you wanted." _

_Anger stirred inside him. _

"I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to trade places with anyone," _he wanted to say, thinking of Marshal, who, although he had yet to hear Sam's report, he was sure had died in his place. But he remained silent. _

"_Mom, stop," Layla tried. _

_Mrs. Rourke was unabated._

"_No Layla, this is too much. We've been to every single service. If Roy would stop choosing strangers over you." She turned back to Dean, her contempt still firm in place. He felt as if she was actually spitting on him with her eyes. "Strangers who don't even believe." _

_Dean swallowed hard. _

"I'm sorry,"_ he thought miserably. _"I really am."

"_I just can't pray any harder." _

_And now despair had taken over the woman's voice. _

"_Layla, what's wrong?" Dean finally managed to ask. He had to know. _

_Layla gave him a trembling smile. _

"_I have this thing…" she said hesitantly. _

"_It's a brain tumor," her mother supplied, looking at Dean coldly. "In six months the doctors say…" Her voice caught, and she stopped and looked away, unable to go on. _

_The words hit Dean like a punch, and he froze on the spot. _

"_I'm sorry," he somehow managed to say through the mind-blowing pain. _"Jesus God, I'm sorry,"_ his mind screamed. _

_Layla had put a hand on the woman's shoulder, and somewhere among the pain that was tearing at his chest, anger flared up in Dean as he watched the dying daughter being strong for the grieving mother. And he thought that wasn't fair, either, that Layla had to be strong for others when it should have been others being strong for her. _

"_It's okay," Layla said then, and just when Dean had thought he couldn't possibly feel worse, he felt another pang of guilt. _

"_No," Mrs. Rourke said, looking at her daughter. "It isn't." She turned to Dean once more, and the look in her eyes held now so many emotions that for a moment the young man thought he was going to scream. Pain, accusation, despise, hatred. "Why do you deserve to live more than my daughter?" _

_That was the final blow. The knife that was in Dean's stomach twisted cruelly, and he found himself staring at the woman, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe. _

"I don't,"_ his mind screamed again. _"I know I don't. God, I'm sorry."

_Mrs. Rourke stared at him for a moment longer before walking away, Layla following suit, carefully avoiding Dean's gaze as tears welled up in her eyes. _

_He watched them go, swallowing hard and clenching his jaw tightly. He turned to look at the reverend's house, but was surprised not to find it. _

_Instead, he found himself standing on the doorframe of a bedroom. He looked back, and found that the previous surroundings were gone, too. He recognized the room that was behind him: it was the lounge of Sam and Jessica's apartment back in Stanford. _

_Frowning, Dean stepped cautiously into the bedroom. It was dark, the street lamps outside the only source of light. _

"_Sam?" he called tentatively. _

_He looked around. The room seemed empty. _

"_Sam?" he called again, louder. _

_The street lamps flickered, causing him to look up, and it was then that he saw her, and felt his blood grow cold in his veins. _

_Jessica was on the ceiling, blood pouring from a gash in her stomach and tickling down to the floor. _

"_Oh my God…" he choked out. _

_Sam choose that moment to enter, and when he saw Dean's horrified expression, he looked up, as well. _

_Dean saw all the color drain from his brother's face, and the next thing he knew, Sam was screaming as the flames came out of nowhere and enveloped Jessica. _

_Dean lounged forward and grabbed Sam, dragging him away as the fire spread. _

"_No!" Sam cried, struggling wildly. "Let me go! Jess! Jess! No!" _

_Dean's stomach rolled, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then his mind started to chant, over and over. _

"I'm sorry. Oh God, Sammy… I'm so sorry. Forgive me, little brother. Please… I'm sorry."

---

"Mr. Evans? Mr. Evans, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

The firm voice and the touch of gentle slaps on his cheeks brought Dean awake with a gasp. The pain in his chest throbbed quietly, and the fact that his heart was beating way faster than it should have certainly wasn't helping.

"Mr. Evans?" the voice called again, the gentle fingers leaving his hot, clammy cheek.

Dean licked his lips, breath coming in short gasps, and after a few tries he managed to make out the blurry shape of the nurse leaning over him.

She smiled reassuringly.

"It's okay. You need to calm down now."

"_No it's not okay. I'm sorry Sammy,"_ his mind cried, echoes of the nightmares still clinging firmly to his head.

"Mr. Evans," the woman repeated, glancing worriedly at the monitors. "Now please focus on my voice. You need to calm down. Take a few breaths. In," she inhaled, "and out," she exhaled.

"_What the fuck…?"_ Dean's fogged mind failed to grasp the utility of that little exercise.

"Mr. Evans, please," the nurse insisted. "Breathe with me. In and out. In and out. Come on."

"_What the hell is this?"_ Dean thought irritably. _"Am I going into labor or something?" _

"Breathe in," she said again, and Dean had the sudden urge of shoving something into her mouth so that she would shut up. "And then out."

"Where's my brother?" he managed to gasp. Because really, that was all that he wanted to know at the moment.

"He'll be back shortly," the nurse said quickly. "Now please…"

"_Oh God… give me a break,"_ he thought.

"I need to speak with my brother," he said.

The nurse grinned at that. So if the young man was so anxious to see his brother, maybe she had found a way to try and get his heartbeat under control… At least, under as much control as it could be, she then thought sadly.

"Look, your brother will be here soon," she said, trying once again to capture his unfocused gaze. "And I would hate for him to find you with your monitors beeping crazily and your heart going at a mile a minute. You need to watch it there."

If he'd only have enough breath to, Dean would have laughed.

"_Watch it? Ahah. Lady, I'm dying here, in case you didn't notice. Just let me see Sam." _

She could see that he wasn't listening.

"Mr. Evans," she snapped, "do I need to sedate you?"

"_Sedate me? What the hell for?" _

But sedatives meant that he would miss Sam's visit, and after what he had just seen in his dreams, he really didn't want that. So he cursed inwardly and forced himself to calm down.

The nurse blinked. She hadn't expected that to do the trick, but she guessed it didn't matter.

"Good," she said. "Now come on, let's try. Breathe in," the patient inhaled with her, "and now out," the patient exhaled. "Good. Let's do it again."

It took a few minutes, but finally Dean's breath steadied and his heartbeat slowed.

The nurse gave him a big smile.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Dean had to admit that no, it wasn't. It actually helped him some. But damn him if he was going to give her satisfaction.

"Okay, now I'm going to give you a new dose of painkillers and then I'll talk with Dr. Jackson: I don't like your breathing," she said, reaching for his IV.

"No, wait," he stopped her. "No painkillers."

She eyed him curiously.

"Mr. Evans, I'd dare say you need them."

"_Damn straight I do,"_ he thought.

His chest hurt, his limbs felt heavy and there was a general soreness in his body as if he had been rolled over by a truck. And still, although he knew he needed them, he didn't find the painkillers appealing.

"I don't want them," he said.

The nurse sighed. This sure was a tough patient.

"I'm sorry, but I don't see any other option."

"_Damn you! Are you even listening to me?" _Dean thought furiously.

"Look, lady," he tried once more.

"Name's Helen," she replied distractedly as she checked the dose.

"Helen," he said. "I think I can decide for myself whether the pain needs to be killed or not."

Helen raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think so."

Dean's irritation grew.

"Now listen here…" he began.

"What's going on?"

Dean looked up at the voice and Helen turned to see her patient's brother step into the room.

"Your brother's being stubborn," she said with a grin.

Sam found himself stifling a laugh at the glare Dean shot the nurse behind her back.

"Yeah, that's Dean for you," he replied. "So what are you giving the lady a hard time for, Dean?"

This time he bit his lip at Dean's indignant stare that clearly said, _"Traitor"_.

"Bite me, Sam," he grumbled, and Sam's grin widened.

"He wouldn't let me give him a new dose of painkillers," Helen said.

Sam sobered up in an instant, shooting a concerned look at his brother.

"Dean…" he began.

"No," Dean cut him off sharply.

Sam sighed and rubbed his neck. He could see that something was going on in Dean's head, that he wasn't just being bitchy for the sake of it. There was more to it.

"Can you leave us alone for a minute?" he asked the nurse gently. "I want to talk to him."

Helen looked from one brother to the other for a moment before nodding.

"Okay. I'll go find Dr. Jackson in the meantime."

Sam smiled at her as she exited the room.

"Thanks."

As soon as she was gone, the younger Winchester sat on the chair near the bed.

"Wanna tell me what this is about?"

Dean looked away.

"I just don't want them," he grumbled.

Sam sighed again.

"Dean," he said pointedly.

Dean remained silent.

"Dean, you need the painkillers," Sam insisted quietly. "You know it."

"Dammit, Sam, they make me groggy!" Dean snapped, finally looking up at his brother. "And I don't want to spend the last days of my life so drugged up that I won't know what's going on around me."

"_I want to see. I want to feel. I don't want to be so out of it that I won't hear your voice when we say goodbye,"_ he added in his mind.

And Sam understood. He reached out and put a hand on his brother's arm, squeezing gently.

"Dean, it's gonna be okay. You will know what's going on. I'll make sure of it," he said, softly but firmly.

Dean swallowed as he stared at his brother's face, seeing the determination in his eyes. He trusted Sam. He really did. He just didn't trust himself. It had been awfully hard to focus on Helen just a few minutes ago, and he knew it would be almost impossible to focus on anything when the time would come. He didn't know if he could muster up enough strength to get through the haze of painkillers on top of the haze of death.

"Sam, I don't want them," he said again, looking down. "Please."

Quiet, soft, desperate.

Sam heard the fear in his brother's voice, and he felt a lump grow in his throat.

Still holding his arm, he took his hand with his free one.

"You don't have a choice, Dean," he said softly. "But I promise you, I'll be here, and you will feel that."

For what felt like an eternity, Dean remained unmoving, then he looked back up into his brother's eyes, and finally nodded.

Sam smiled and patted his arm reassuringly.

Helen choose that moment to come back into the room.

"Can the pain be killed now, Mr. Evans?" she asked kindly, quoting his words from earlier.

Dean didn't look at her as he nodded.

With a smile, Helen injected the drugs in the IV.

"There you go. They should be kicking in soon," she said, not knowing that to Dean, that wasn't a relief. "I'm going to see to other patients now. Dr. Jackson will be here in a few minutes."

"Thanks," Sam smiled again.

She returned the gesture and walked out once more.

Dean could already feel the pain subside, and was annoyed to feel his lids beginning to droop.

Noticing this, Sam smiled softly.

"Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

Dean licked his lips and rolled his head towards him.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he murmured.

Sam shook his head and squeezed his hand.

"It's okay. Just rest now."

Dean frowned slightly. Why hadn't Sam asked what he was sorry for? Was his guilt so evident? And then he realized that his brother thought he was apologizing for what had just happened with the painkillers.

"_No, damn you, that's not what I meant,"_ he thought angrily.

"Sammy…" he tried. But he could feel sleep claiming him.

His last thought before succumbing to the lulling darkness was, _"Exactly what I was talking about. Damn painkillers." _

---

Sam sat going slowly through the pages of the journal, scanning every line, every article, every note for something that might give him a clue about what was wrong there. He had been doing so for the past three hours. So far, nothing.

He let out a frustrated puff of air and rubbed tiredly at his neck as he worked his burning shoulders.

He glanced at Dean, asleep, and was relieved to see that he kept on breathing easier thanks to the nasal cannula Dr. Jackson had applied earlier.

Feeling the need to stretch his leg, Sam put the journal safely back in his jacket and stood, going to stare out of the window. A soft sniffle behind him made him turn, and he saw Helen walking into the room, quickly wiping her eyes before looking up at him with a wobbly smile.

"So, let's see how your big brother's holding up," she said as she went to check the monitors, voice still a little shaky. After a few notes on her pad, she gave him another smile, broader this time, and far more sincere. "Looks like he's stable. That's good."

Sam returned the smile, then he eyed her carefully.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

Her smile faltered, but she nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just…" She sighed heavily. "A friend of mine just died."

"I'm sorry," Sam said sincerely.

Helen gave an acknowledging nod.

"She was brought in yesterday. I don't understand… it's so odd…"

Sam felt his heart start beating a little faster at those words.

"What do you mean, 'odd'?"

"She collapsed yesterday morning. I was with her, we were having a coffee. But she awoke after a few minutes and seemed fine. I checked her over… Her BP was a little low but other than that, nothing seemed to be wrong. And then… yesterday afternoon…" Helen swallowed the lump that had come to fill her throat. "Her daughter and husband brought her in. She was having trouble breathing. Turns out she had pneumonia. A very bad case. She died only twenty minutes ago." She remained silent for a few moments and then licked her lips. "I… it's so cruelly ironic… She had pneumonia a few years ago. There were some complications, for a few days we feared she wouldn't make it. For her to go like that…" She gave a choked sob and shook her head.

"_What the hell…?"_ Sam thought, appalled. This was the confirmation that something definitely wasn't right in that city.

"I really am sorry," he said aloud.

Helen smiled weakly.

"Thank you."

And with that, she exited again.

Sam let out a breath. He had research to do.

He went to Dean's bedside and shook his shoulder gently.

"Dean," he called. "Dean, wake up."

Dean groaned and, after some more prompting, bleary green eyes opened to stare up at Sam.

"What?" he mumbled, voice scratchy and heavy with sleep.

"Look, I have to go somewhere for a couple of hours. But I'll be back soon, okay?" Sam said.

Dean frowned and licked his lips.

"Where you goin'?" he slurred.

"I just need to check something out."

Dean kept on staring at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments before he blinked and his eyes cleared some as his brother's words clicked into place.

"Research?" he asked.

Sam gave him a small smile.

"Yeah."

Dean groaned.

"Sam…"

"No, look, something's really goin' on here," Sam argued quickly. "Your heart gave way for a reason."

"No shit, college boy," Dean snorted sarcastically.

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes at his brother.

"I mean a supernatural reason."

"Oh please, Sammy, don't start that again," the older Winchester moaned.

"It's true!" Sam said urgently. "Listen, yesterday while I was on my way back to the motel, a man was brought in the E.R. He had lung cancer. The nurses told me he had seemed to have beaten that two years ago. And today," he went on hurriedly as he saw Dean starting to open his mouth to argue, "a woman died of pneumonia, and she had a pretty bad case of it a few years ago."

Dean sighed tiredly.

"Well, I'm sorry for the poor bastard and the lady, but I really don't see how…"

"Look, just trust me on this, okay?" Sam interrupted.

Dean looked into his brother's eager eyes. He sincerely doubted that those illnesses had something to do with his heart, but if it gave Sam something to do, if it made him feel helpful, then he was willing to act like he might consider the option.

"So, research, uh?" he asked with a smirk.

Sam grinned back, relieved.

"Yeah, research."

Dean nodded.

"Okay."

"I'll be back soon, I promise," Sam said, putting his coat on hurriedly and heading towards the door.

"Dude, I can manage, I don't need you babysitting me," Dean snapped. Then he yawned. "Why the hell did you wake me up anyway?"

Sam looked at him, deadly serious.

"I told you I would be here when you'd wake up. Wanted you to know that I keep my promises."

Dean rolled his eyes. Leave it to Sam to fret over something like that.

"God, you're such a girl," he moaned, secretly touched by Sam's gesture. "Get outta here," he said, waving his hand.

Sam chuckled as he exited the room.

"_And here's another promise to you, Dean," _he thought as he hurried out of the hospital. _"I will find out what's going on, and you're gonna be all right." _

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

**Author notes: **Once again, thank you to everyone who reviewed this story so far. Each and every one of your comments means a lot to me, and it's a true pleasure to read. Thanks also for the constructive criticism, that's greatly appreciated, as well. I apologize for not having replied to everyone of you individually, but this is a pretty hectic period, so please, don't take that in the wrong way. I appreciate and am very grateful for every single comment.

Now, enough blabbering, here's the next chapter. Hope you'll enjoy.

---

PART 4

Sam sighed wearily and rubbed at his tired eyes.

Piles of files lay around him, various documents scattered all over the table in what seemed like complete chaos but was actually a complicated form of scrupulous order. Sam would effortlessly be able to pick up a specific document amongst that mess in the blink of an eye.

He once more glanced longingly at the computers on a table across the room, scowling all over again at the "out of order" note stuck to their screens.

---

"_Every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers, public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill." _

"_Well, that sounds annoying." _

"_No, it won't be so bad, as long as we… I take it back. This will be very annoying." _

---

"_Here you go. Arrest records going back to 1851."_

"_Thanks."_

"_Okay."_

"_So, this is how you spent four years of your life, uh?" _

"_Welcome to higher education."_

---

Sam blinked. Those memories had just popped up out of nowhere.

He suddenly had the silly feeling that if he'd only look up, Dean would be there, sitting across the table, chewing on a pen while muttering curses over the long, boring and tiresome job of library research.

Sam knew it was stupid, but he looked up anyway, and while he hadn't really being expecting anything, his heart still dropped at the sight of the empty chair.

He stared at it for long minutes, not really seeing anything except for the mental image of Dean grinning up at him.

It took a long time, but he finally managed to snap out of it and go back to his task.

Taking out his laptop, Sam proceeded by looking up medical information on the people who had died over the past few months.

Of course, it was reserved information, the kind that can be found only in private files of local hospitals, but he had never said his methods of research were always legal.

As he hacked through Gettysburg hospital's system, he thought that Dean would be proud of him, if only he could see him.

Firmly pushing the fear aside, Sam typed in the first name.

McCoy, Kathleen

Age, 42

COD, Severe Hypothermia

Okay, the next.

Johnson, James

Age, 23

COD, Internal Injuries

Four years prior, the guy had been admitted after a car crash which led to severe internal bleeding that at the time the doctors had managed to fix.

The list went on and on. Almost all of them seemed to have died of the exact same symptoms that gave them a brush with that in some point of their life.

Sam frowned deeply.

"_What the fuck…"_ he thought as he feverishly typed in the last name.

_Winchester, Dean _

_Age, 26 _

_COD, Heart Failure _

_Sam stared first at the list and then back at his laptop, horrified. That wasn't the name he could read in the library files. _

_Jordan, Zackary _

_Age, 61 _

_COD, Brain Tumor _

_That's what was supposed to be appearing on the screen, not Dean. Besides, Dean wasn't dead, was he? _

_An insistent ringing took him momentarily out of his astonishment, and he fumbled with his jacket to get hold of his cell phone. _

"_Hello?" _

"_Mr. Evans? This is Dr. Jackson, from the hospital." _

_Sam felt bile rise up his throat. _

"Oh God…"

"_Mr. Evans, could you please come over here as soon as possible?" _

_Sam swallowed hard. He tried to speak a couple of times, but his voice seemed to have deserted his dry throat. _

"_What's happening?" he finally managed to croak out. _

_There was a long pause at the other end of the line. _

"_Just get here, Mr. Evans. Please." _

"_What's going on?" Sam asked, on the verge of panic, even while already halfway out of the library. _

_Dr. Jackson was silent for another terrifying moment. And when he spoke next, the words stabbed the younger Winchester. _

"_I'm afraid your brother passed away. I'm awfully sorry." _

Sam jerked awake with a gasp, heart thundering in his chest and head throbbing after the vision.

The phone rang, and he felt a new surge of terror as he took it out with trembling hands.

"Hello?" his voice was hoarse and strained when he picked up.

"Mr. Evans?"

He swallowed the nausea that swept over him.

"This is Dr. Jackson, from the hospital."

"_No. God, no." _

"Could you please come over here as soon as possible? I'm afraid your brother…"

"I'm on my way."

---

Sam rushed into the hospital, heart pounding furiously in his chest, so much that it hurt.

He wanted to run to Dean's room, but he didn't. Not out of respect of the old "you don't run in hospitals" rule, but simply because his legs were so heavy with dread he could barely walk, let alone run.

So he just forced one foot in front of the other until he finally reached the right corridor, just in time to see Dr. Jackson exit Dean's room.

"Ah, Mr. Evans," the dark-skinned man smiled kindly as he approached.

"What's going on, doc?" Sam asked, forcing his voice out. "Is he…"

"Come, let's take a seat," the doctor said, putting a hand to his shoulder and guiding him to a few chairs in the corridor.

Sam clenched his fists as he complied. When doctors asked you to sit down it was never good, he knew it.

Dr. Jackson heaved a sigh and rubbed at his neck before finally lifting his eyes to the young man at his side.

He'd been a medic for a long while, but still, every time he saw that look in people's eyes, he felt like get up and scream. But he once again held himself in check.

"Your brother developed a high fever."

"How high?" Sam asked immediately.

"104."

Sam closed his eyes briefly.

"_Man…"_

"His heart rhythm was getting abnormal, so we focused on medications apt to decrease the muscle's need for oxygen, so that the heart doesn't have to strain…"

"Why? Isn't the cannula helping?" Sam interrupted worriedly.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Jackson reassured. "But it's not enough at the time, so we increased the dose of that particular medication. Which we also did with the one that's meant to prevent abnormal heart rhythms."

"Such a great work it's done so far," Sam muttered darkly.

The doctor eyed him sadly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry, doc," Sam said, shaking his head slightly. "I know you're doing all you can." He sighed. "So, how is he now?"

"We stabilized him. But his condition clearly deteriorated."

Sam's stomach clenched for what he felt was the millionth time.

"_God, Dean, don't do this to me…"_

"I'll go stay with him now," he said, getting on his feet and extending his hand. "Thanks doc."

Dr. Jackson shook his hand and watched as the young man went into the room with heavy steps and slumped shoulders. He shook his head as he headed in the opposite direction. There were some days in which he truly hated his job.

---

Sam let himself sink into the chair next to the bed, grateful that it was there, because he was quickly learning, his legs couldn't be trusted.

He reached out to gently touch his brother's forehead, feeling the fever burning under his fingers.

Dean stirred and opened his eyes, and Sam winced inwardly. He hadn't though Dean could possibly look worse than what he had up until now, but apparently he'd been wrong: he looked wrecked.

"Hey," the older Winchester greeted with a smile, voice considerably weaker than Sam had last heard it.

"Hey," he said in return. "Are you in any pain?" he asked softly.

Dean shook his head reassuringly.

"No. Just an headache."

Sam nodded, feeling relieved, if ever so slightly. No pain was something.

"Found anything?"

Dean wasn't really interested, but it would distract Sam from his fear, if only for a while, and he knew his brother was too distressed to see through his façade.

Not surprisingly, Sam's posture changed immediately from defeated to "man on a mission". Dean couldn't suppress a small grin that went unnoticed as Sam started to speak.

"Actually, yes," the younger Winchester said. "I checked death and medical files of the people who died over the last few months, and guess what? Most of them died of causes that already put their lives in danger on different occasions."

Dean blinked up at him.

"What are you saying? That people are having relapses?"

"Sort of. And something is causing all this. I just know it."

Dean licked his lips and frowned slightly.

"Are you sure it's not just coincidence?"

Sam arched an eyebrow.

"Twenty people?"

"Oh," was all Dean said.

"So you see my point now?" Sam said, unable to hold back a smug grin. Then he sobered up and gripped his brother's arm, his eyes burning into Dean's. "I'm gonna learn about this thing, I'm gonna find it, and I'm gonna destroy it."

"_Well, you better hurry here, little brother, 'cause I'm fading."_

He didn't voice that thought. But he could feel himself growing more tired by the hour, and he wasn't sure how long he could fight now.

"Sam?" he called.

"Yeah?" Sam asked eagerly, unconsciously leaning closer.

"Why are you whispering?"

"Uh?" Sam frowned, and only then did it occur to him that his voice had been unconsciously matching Dean's.

"This higher education thing must be exhausting if you can't find your voice at the end of the day," Dean smirked.

Sam smacked him lightly on the arm.

"Shut up. Get some rest."

"I'm not tired. Got far more stamina than you, college boy," Dean retorted.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Dean," Sam smiled fondly, watching as his brother's lids began to droop.

All of a sudden it was as if Dean's strength just ebbed away, and Sam found the all-to-familiar blade of fear resuming its slashing of his insides.

Dean forced his lids open to a fraction, and he rolled tired green eyes to his brother.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallowed hard, trying to breathe past said blade's assault as Dean sounded even weaker.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Has dad called back?"

Sam closed his eyes briefly as he felt his heart slowly starting to break. There was a frailty in his brother's voice that went far beyond his condition, something he'd never known.

"Not yet, Dean." He couldn't help it. He just couldn't lie to his brother, it wouldn't be fair. Dean deserved nothing but the truth. Not to mention that he would see through any lie of his like through a glass.

Dean smiled sadly up at him and reached out to squeeze his hand weakly, his eyes slowly closing once more.

"S' okay," he slurred. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispered again.

And Sam didn't know whether to cry or scream. Unable to choose, he did neither, allowing his voice to die in his throat.

---

"Dad? It's Sam. It's Dean…" Sam's voice died out and a choked sob could be heard before the young man resumed his talking. "He's sick again, dad. His… his heart…" His son took a shuddering breath, and his voice was steady when he spoke next. "Another heart attack. Doctors can't explain it. You know, a man was brought in while I left the hospital. He has lung cancer, but they said he had seemed to have beaten that two years ago."

John frowned, wondering why it was that Sam was rambling on about some stranger's condition instead of telling him what was going on with Dean.

"This man collapsed briefly this morning. His wife had first put it down to low BP, but then he got sick. Dean passed out, too, a few hours before," a slight hesitation, "it happened."

"_Oh. So that's why,"_ John thought.

"I think something's going on," Sam went on. "_Our_ something. So if you've got any ideas of what it could be… or want to come and see Dean… or…" The young man took another unsteady breath. "Just call back, dad. Please."

The message ended with a click, and John Winchester brushed away the few tears that were rolling down his cheeks, wondering when exactly had they started to fall.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

Author Notes: Another huge thanks to all of you who have reviewed this story. I appreciate your words so much. Thanks. And I really mean it. I dedicate this part to all of you.

Warnings: As you well know this isn't betaed, I'm Italian and it's 3.00 AM over here, so please excuse the errors and most of all the possible typos.

---

PART 5

"_If you go, you stay gone, Sam, you hear me?" _

"_Fine!" _

_The shattering sound of a door slamming shut on everything that he'd always known; the deafening noise of his family falling in too many pieces to be pulled back together; the cruel hiss of a blade lashing out as deep inside he started bleeding. _

_And then nothing. He was standing in darkness. _

"_Sam?" he called out, looking around, seeing only black. "Dad? Where are you?" _

_None answered. _

"_SAM!" _

_A shiver ran down his spine and he turned around, slowly. There was a large mirror before him. He took a few steps forward, looking at his image, seeing the lost look on his face. _

_And then, his expression changed, his reflection now wearing a cruel sneer on his lips, eyes burning with anger, jaw taut with fury. _

"_It was your fault," the Dean Winchester in the mirror growled. _

_He blinked, feeling tears starting to roll down his face. Blood tears. _

"_You did nothing," the image spat. "Nothing. You just stood there. Helpless, like the stray dog you are."_

"_I…" Dean started to protest, but he fell to his knees, clutching at his chest as it was squeezed unmercifully. _

"_You knew the words were coming, didn't you? You could see it in the man's eyes, the way irrational anger flared up into them. You could have stopped them. You could have stopped it all from happening. But you didn't. You just stood there and watched."_

"I didn't know,"_ Dean wanted to scream. _"I didn't know!"

_But he knew it was a lie. _

"_You should have stood up to him. For Sam. If only you had voiced your thoughts and supported his dream… Do you know how much suffering you would have spared him? If only you had said anything that day… Made him know how proud you were of him… But you didn't. You did nothing, said nothing. You just bled. COWARD!" _

_Dean gritted his teeth as the cold, invisible hand closed tighter around his chest. _

"_You say such beautiful words, you utter such important speeches…" his reflection went on, words dripping venom. "About family, about how you need them. You try so hard… So hard to put this family back together, but you were the cause that had it falling apart!" _

"I'm sorry."

_That litany was becoming all to familiar to his mind. _

"_Sorry doesn't begin to cover it!" his reflection cried in rage. "Such protector you are… You let him go without so much than a word, you don't fight for him, and then you stumble back into his life and take everything away from him. His friends, his dream, his love. Because it was your fault. You killed Jessica. Not the demon, not Sam. You. You're the one who dragged him away. You're the one who started it all again for him. It was your fault Jess was alone that night. Your fault nobody was there to help her. Your fault the demon went for her in the first place, because Sam was back into the gig. Your fault."_

"My fault… I know… All my fault… Sam… Sammy…"

"_I wonder what little Sammy would think if he knew the reason why your eyes were bleeding, as well, was the exact same reason for his own bleeding orbs," his reflection smiled cruelly. "You killed Jessica, Dean. And in a way, you killed Sam right alongside with her." _

"Sam… SAMMY!"

_Blood tears running steadily down his cheeks and burning his eyes, pain slicing at his chest, lungs starving for air, Dean somehow managed to open his jaws… and scream. _

---

His eyes snapped open, as wide as those of a child. But the raw fear and sorrow embedded in the green irises held nothing childish about them.

Moisture dampened his cheeks, the tears he didn't know how to shed in broad daylight having defeated him in sleep. The rush of his own blood was ringing in his ears, his heart thundered in his chest. It hurt.

Suddenly there was a hand on his face, warm and gentle, disbelief clear even in the way the thumb fingered his wet skin.

"Dean? Dean, what is it? Are… are you _crying_?" Sam sounded shocked.

"_No, Sam, I'm not crying. Smoke got in my eyes,"_ a part of his mind retorted sarcastically.

It was a very small part though, because the main part of his mind was trying to get free of the nightmare, to make sense of his surroundings, to push past the weight on his chest that were his emotions raging inside of him.

The main part of his mind was searching for a life line that would save him from drowning.

And that life line just revealed itself to be Sam, who quietly sat on the edge of the bed and gripped that spot between neck and collarbone with gentle force, thumb running slowly over his throat, all the while speaking to him in a soft voice, murmuring reassurances that weren't nearly as soothing as the voice itself.

After a few minutes, Dean found his erratic breathing slowing down, along with his heartbeat, which admittedly was a huge relief, because physical pain was starting to worry him almost as much as his emotional one.

A glass was pressed against his lips, and after that a cool cloth was run over his face, wiping away the remaining of the tears and sweat he hadn't even realized had been there.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. God, he felt so tired…

"Any better?" Sam's voice asked, and he forced his eyes open to stare at the worried face of his brother.

"Yeah," he smiled, and was surprised by the roughness of his own voice, how it sounded foreigner even to him, it was so weak. "Thanks, Sam."

"What's going on?" Sam asked again after a few moments of silence.

"_Should've known this was coming,"_ Dean thought.

"Nothing, just a nightmare."

Sam arched an eyebrow.

"Some nightmare that must have been, for you to wake up in _tears_." He emphasized the word.

"_You are so not getting away this time, Dean,"_ he thought resolutely.

"Yeah…" Dean whispered absently. "Some nightmare…"

"Dean."

There was that hint in Sam's voice, the one that said that he would go to the bottom of this. That note that sang of determination and care and… worry. And Dean knew that if he was to look into his brother's eyes now, he'd be screwed.

"_Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't…" _

"Dean."

A little more urgent, a little more pleading.

"_Aw, hell." _

Dean looked up.

---

"Dean. Talk to me."

"_Damn you, Sam, just gimme a minute!" _

He hated this. This weakness, both physical and emotional, that was suddenly getting the best of him, overtaking every effort from his part.

He knew Sam was expecting an explanation, and he knew he couldn't escape. Not this time.

He so desperately wanted to make up some story. Something that wouldn't stray totally from the truth but that wouldn't be the truth, either. Those kind of stories were pure art, the most believable tale a man could ever relate. Actually, they were often even more believable than the truth itself. And they would always deceive Sam. Always, no exception.

But his brother's eyes were pinning him to the bed, and he suddenly wasn't so sure he wanted to cover up the truth anymore. Maybe it was okay to let the mask slip just this once.

"I… this is killing me, Sam. The guilt."

The words were out before he even had the time to blink and realize exactly why were his lips moving. It had been nothing more than a whisper, but they were out nonetheless.

And Sam had heard them. Loud and clear as if they were shouted. And something in that whisper made his heart clench.

"What guilt?" he kept his voice steady. He couldn't let Dean know that he was afraid to ask.

"Everything that happened… I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam frowned. He had been worried earlier. Now he was starting to get scared.

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

Dean sighed and buried himself deeper into the pillows, half-hoping that they could swallow him.

"_You're the one who got the ball running, Winchester,"_ he thought bitterly. _"No sense in stopping it now." _

Still, it hurt like a bitch, and he didn't look at Sam as he tried to explain. He didn't want to see the look that would cross his brother's face at his words, it being of pain, anger, accusation, indifference or whatever. He just didn't want to see. Talking was hard enough.

"What happened in these past few years… Or rather what _didn't_ happen…" God, he sucked at this. He took a breath and tried again. "That day when you left, I should have done something. I should have stood up to dad for you. I should have told you how I felt."

"And how did you feel?" Sam asked softly, voice rough with the emotions that were stirring at the pit of his stomach.

They had never talked about this. Dean had never really touched the subject, and he had never asked, because truth was, he wasn't that sure he wanted to talk about it himself. He didn't want to remember that day.

But now Dean was baring his soul, or rather, he was trying to, and he wanted to listen.

"I…" Dean licked his lips. "I felt… torn." He paused. "I wanted you to have your dream. I wanted you to…" _"…have the chance I never had,"_ his thoughts said. But his voice didn't. His voice carefully avoided the Dean's-missed-opportunities path and kept on focusing on Sam. "…to do your geek college thing. But I also didn't want to see you going."

"You were scared something might happen to me and you wouldn't be around to prevent it," Sam said. It wasn't a question.

A corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly in a bitter smirk, and he shot a quick look at Sam before his eyes went back to stare at the sheets.

"That's a too noble way to put it. Yes, I was afraid of that, but it was more than that, Sam." He swallowed, both against the force of his emotions and a weird kind of fatigue that had started to creep up into him and that he was sure he should fear but at the same time was too busy to acknowledge. "Our family was falling apart, and I knew that if you left, there would be no putting it back together. I… I thought I was losing you. And dad. I was confused, I didn't know what to do. So I did nothing."

Sam felt a sharp pain stabbing at his gut. Sharper than the claws of any creature he had faced in the past. He swallowed uselessly a few times, fumbling in search of some words to say. He found none.

Dean saved him, unexpectedly, by speaking again.

"I was so proud of you, Sammy. But I didn't tell you."

"Dean…"

"And then Jess died."

Sam frowned again, deeper this time.

"What has Jess got to do with any of this?" he asked, a little sharper than he had intended, his insides tensing.

Dean swallowed again. Why was his head so fuzzy? Why did his heart feel so… heavy inside his chest? Literally. It was like having a rock planted in his torso.

He could feel it thumping slowly, straying to pump blood into his system. And he suddenly realized that he had to hurry.

Funny how calm he felt about that. He had always known that he wouldn't be afraid of death once it came, but he had taken at least a bit of apprehension for granted.

Now though, when he thought about death reaching out to him, he felt numb.

"Dean?"

Sam's prompting voice took him away from his idle thoughts.

"Yeah," he said, looking up at him.

"What has Jess got to do with this?" Sam asked again.

Dean looked away almost immediately.

"It's my fault she died. I'm the one who came and dragged you away, back into this stuff, without warning. Every time I think about the day you left, and about Jess, all I can really think about is that I fucked up your life pretty good."

He closed his eyes and sank a little deeper into the cushions, exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

"_God, I am so not opening up ever again,"_ he thought.

He wondered how Sam did it, pouring out his feelings about most things every so often. Damn emo speeches could kill a man faster than any heart attack would ever do.

A hand squeezed his arm gently.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam's voice was thick with tears, and sure enough, when Dean lifted his lids to finally look at him, he could see them in his brother's eyes, threatening to spill at any minute.

"I just…" he began, but he couldn't find the words. And even if he had them, he knew he wouldn't have managed to utter them anyway. His heart slowed his beat further, and he found himself breathing heavily.

"Sammy…"

Sam's stomach lurched. There was something he couldn't define in Dean's voice, but he didn't need to have a name for it to know what it meant.

He instinctively grabbed Dean's hand, clutching to him.

"Dean! Come on, man, stay with me."

"Tired…" Dean whispered as his lids began to droop.

"No, Dean. Stay awake. Just a little bit longer," Sam pleaded.

"_Stay awake… must… stay… awake…" _

Dean knew the battle was lost even as his mind uttered those thoughts.

"Sorry… Sammy…"

He watched from far away as his brother's crushed features blurred away, and the last thing he felt was something wet hitting his bare arm. A tear, he knew. But he was powerless to wipe it away.

"_I'm sorry, Sammy."_

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Once again, sorry about the delay. I wasn't happy with how this chapter came out and so I rewrote it. I hope you'll enjoy!

Thanks so very, very much to all my reviewers. You're all awesome!

---

PART 6 

"_Your brother has slipped into a coma." _

"_But he _will_ wake up, right?" _

"_He could. But we're not hopeful. I am so very sorry." _

---

Sam didn't know how long ago the doctor had uttered those words. He didn't know how long ago the monitor had started beeping crazily, as his brother closed his eyes and ignored his tears.

He didn't know how long he had been staring at the unmoving features, unable to look away but not really seeing them, as Dean's words echoed endlessly through his mind.

Hours, minutes, mere seconds… How long since Dean had stripped his soul naked?

Sam didn't know. He only knew that this was a nightmare, and he wanted to wake up.

But he didn't, just as Dean's eyes didn't open.

---

The book was an ancient one. He didn't have a hard time in finding it, and he once again marveled at the carelessness of people.

It wasn't the first time he found such a book in a public library, but even after years of dealing with the supernatural, he couldn't help but feeling irritation stirring at the pit of his stomach.

Because really, what idiot would ever leave such a powerful text for everyone to find? There were _spells_ in there, for God's sake!

He scanned the pages intently, fear sharpening his senses as always. Fear kept him focused. Ironic as it sounded, fear kept him from panicking.

He read for hours. Hours he wasn't sure Dean had, but there was just no way to move things along any faster. He couldn't afford to miss a thing. And when he had all the information he needed, and finally came to the page he was looking for, the centre of everything, John's eyes widened.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed.

Still staring at the book, he groped fervently for his cell phone, flipped it open and hit the speed dial.

---

"_You know, since I don't have my trusty sidekick geek boy to do all the research." _

_It was said lightly. It could have deceived anyone's ears. But not those of a little brother trained to catch every single vibration behind whatever tone Dean chose to set. _

_And so it was that to Sam, that lightness sounded strained. _

_He gave a half-chuckle, more at the poor attempt of disguise than at the joke itself. _

"_You know, if you're hinting you need my help, just ask." _

_There, he would make things a little easier for Dean. But not so easy that he wouldn't be forced to push his steel pride aside for once. _

"_I'm not hinting anything." _

"Yeah, right," _Sam scoffed inwardly. _

_There was a pause at the other end of the line. An awkward one, and then Dean's voice came again, unusually uncertain, stumbling over the words. _

"_Actually… uh…" _

_A small chuckle, a clear of his throat. _

"Come on, Dean, it's not that hard."

"_I want you to know… I mean, don't think…" _

"Oh, fuck."

_Sam decided to take pity. _

"_Yeah, I'm sorry, too." _

_As he said it, he realized that he was bringing relief to himself more than saving Dean: he had needed to get that off his chest. _

_There was another pause, and then… _

"_Sam? You were right."_

_Sam frowned slightly. Right? About what? Whatever it was, it certainly was going to be good. He listened in anticipation, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the fact that he was about to be given the chance to be smug for a reason. _

"Childish, Sam, real childish," _he told himself, only to shrug mentally an instant later. _"Who cares?"

"_You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life." _

_Well, hell, whatever he'd been expecting, that certainly wasn't it. Triumph gave way to astonishment. _

"_You serious?" he grinned into the phone, but his smile had nothing puerile in it. It was soft, pleased, warmth spreading inside his chest as the words he had always hoped to hear were spoken into his ear. _

"_You've always known what you want, and you go after it." _

_Sam's grin faded slowly, a lump growing steadily in his throat. What was Dean saying? _

"_You stand up to dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I…" Dean's voice cracked almost imperceptibly, but again, Sam's trained ears caught that. _

"What, Dean?" _he prompted mentally. Dean was opening up on something that was very dear to Sam, although he never dared to press much, because his brother's eyes went funny every time the subject was touched, just a mere second before the stony veil was put back._ "What is it that you wish?"

"_Anyway," Dean seemed to snap out of it. _

"Dammit."

"_I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy." _

_For a moment Sam couldn't believe his own ears. Then the lump squeezed his throat as the words sank in. _

---

The memory was bittersweet, and Sam wasn't smiling as his mind recalled it. Because other words were also ringing in his ears.

"_I was so proud of you, Sammy. But I didn't tell you."_

Sam let out a shaky breath, reaching out to rub his brother's arm.

"Yes, you did," he murmured, speaking for the first time in what felt like an eternity. His voice was scratchy from disuse, and he had to clear his throat. "You told me."

"_I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy." _

He squeezed Dean's arm once before resuming his rubbing.

"It doesn't matter when or why. You told me." He gave a bitter chuckle, which curiously came out as a strangled sob. "You wanna hear something funny? After that phone call, I realized that deep down I've always known, how proud you are of me." He paused and swallowed hard, feeling his throat burning with unshed tears. "And I'm sorry for not seeing it sooner." His voice broke on the last sentence.

Then he just sat there, staring. He looked at Dean's pale face, wondering how someone's features could go from holding all the pain in the world to be completely blank in the matter of a few minutes.

It was still plaguing him, the image of Dean's eyes a few hours ago, haunted by guilt.

Guilt Sam had no idea his brother had been shouldering up until then, and he once again wondered how had he managed to miss it.

All that time, he never had a clue.

"_Psychic wonder, my ass,"_ he spat inwardly, feeling a razor-sharp stab of pain as the nickname taunted his ears, uttered by Dean's voice.

His hand moved then, fingers going to entwine themselves with Dean's, thumb starting to run softly over the back of the limp hand in a movement more apt to reassure himself than his brother.

Sam could feel Dean's guilt crushing him in a way that not even his own remorse ever could.

"I never told you this," before he knew it, he had started to talk, voice rough and words heavy with years of silence, "but I'm glad you came to me that night. I missed you, Dean. You were right, you know? I would've never picked up the phone if you had called." He gave a breathless chuckle that tasted like vinegar in his throat. "I feel so stupid about that now. You see, somewhere along the road…" Sam stopped, thinking about how literal those words were. He cleared his throat, to no avail. "Somewhere along the road I realized that you never turned your back on me. _I _did. In my haste to leave dad and the hunt behind, I left you, too. I'm so sorry, Dean. And… and it wasn't your fault, Jessica dying." He paused again, fighting against the almost physical pain that talking aloud about Jessica never failed to bring. "I'm slowly coming to accept that it wasn't my fault, either. It'll take a while, but I'm getting there. Thanks to you, 'cause you're constantly kicking my ass six ways from Sunday about it." A fond smile formed on his lips. It was true. If it wasn't for Dean, he would probably have self-destroyed a long time ago. "None of everything that's happened was your fault. None of it." He squeezed his brother's hand for emphasis.

The silence returned, and Sam waited for Dean's voice to break it. It didn't speak, the beeping of the monitors the only sound in the room. Sam couldn't bear to look at it, at the machine that informed him of just how unsteady, how weak Dean's heartbeat was. It seemed to mock him, as if he already didn't know all that himself.

Overcome with anguish, Sam hung his head.

"God, Dean… I wish you could hear me."

The whisper seemed to echo off the walls, sounding deafening and completely foreign in a room that seemed already devoted to emptiness.

For long minutes there was no sound. Until suddenly, Sam's phone rang.

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I am astounded. I managed to write a whole chapter in one day (which is something I rarely succeed in doing 'cause I've got pretty much the same attention span of a two-year-old), and what's more the day after the last update! Go me! LOL

As always, thanks so very, very much to my reviewers. I really hope you will enjoy this chapter.

---

PART 7 

The phone kept ringing for a bit, Sam staring at it dumbfounded for a few moments. He didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. It was a landline, the number of an actual house. No pay phones or unknown cells.

He finally managed to snap out of his stupor and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Sam? That you?"

The voice that spoke wasn't the one he had both hoped and expected to hear, and he closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing a sudden surge of burning disappointment. He should have known this wasn't his father.

But the voice was still a familiar one, and he found himself comforted by it.

"Caleb?"

"Yeah, it's me," the other hunter replied. "How's Dean?"

"He… uh…" Sam exhaled slowly. "He's not good."

"So I've heard."

Sam frowned. "What do you mea-" Realization hit him. Hard. Bringing unadulterated anger with it. "Dad contacted you, didn't he? It was Dad who asked you to call us, wasn't it? Did he also give you any words of encouragement to pass on, by any chance? Maybe a goodbye message I can give to my brother who won't hear it anyway because he's in a fucking coma and he just won't wake up?"

Sam was idly aware of how frantically incoherent he was sounding in his almost-shouted rambling, the words tumbling furiously out of his lips as if a dam had just burst open. He didn't care.

"Whoa," Caleb said, and Sam could almost see the man holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Chill out, Sam. What did you say? Dean's in a coma?"

"Yes," Sam snapped. "Dean's in a coma and he might not wake up. But apparently our father would still rather call his friends than his own sons."

"Sam." Caleb's voice was now firm, harsh, holding the authoritative 'shut-up-this-instant' tone that had Sam so intimidated when he was a kid. He was twenty-two now, and it didn't affect him anymore. But he clamped his mouth shut nonetheless. Because that tone also meant Caleb had something to say, and when Caleb had something to say, it was always worth listening. "It's a Gwrach-y-rhybin."

Sam suddenly found himself more confused than angry.

"A what?"

"It's a kind of Banshee. Only, a Banshee announces death, Gwrach-y-rhybin brings it to those who have somehow escaped the call. It creates a link with them, opens a hole through their defenses, which would be why Dean and the other victims were suddenly drained of their strength and passed out right before the real thing started. Grach-y-rhybin is some sort of avenger of Death. It rights the 'wrongs', succeeds where Death has failed."

Sam shook his head, feeling slightly dizzy from all the information he had just received. But his mind sharpened almost instantly, instinct kicking in. He wasn't powerless anymore. His hand squeezed Dean's arm tightly.

"The name of this thing," Sam began. "It sounds weird. What kind of language is that?"

As he spoke, his whole self back into the "job", everything about him changed. His posture became alert, shoulders straightened, his body ready for action almost as if he was about to launch himself in a battle. Which, admittedly, he was. His voice was now firm, oozing determination.

"It's Welsh," Caleb replied, and Sam could swear he heard a grin in his voice. He had probably picked up Sam's change of demeanor. "You're dealing with a creature that's supposed to be a pagan goddess. A Celtic one."

"Supposed?" Sam repeated suspiciously.

"It's just a theory, actually. John Rhys mentions it in his book, 'Celtic Folklore'. There's a few figures that are quite similar to Gwrach-y-rhybin in British folklore. Rhys figures they could be what's left of an ancient cult worshipping a dark goddess."

"What about you?" Sam asked. "You think this Rhys guy could be right?"

"Actually, yes. It makes sense."

Caleb sounded sure enough for Sam, and he implicitly embraced the theory himself.

"How do I stop it?"

"Well…" Suddenly Caleb sounded uncertain. "The thing is, Gwrach-y-rhybin is supposed to haunt ancient Welsh families…"

"We're in South Dakota!" Sam interrupted in disbelief.

"I know. But listen, it's also associated with specific places, so maybe there's an ancient pagan site over there, somewhere. Maybe Gwrach-y-rhybin clung to it."

"Could be…" Sam muttered. "But still, there wouldn't be any Welsh families here."

"Who knows? Maybe someone's got a Welsh heritance."

"Dean certainly doesn't," Sam argued. "And I doubt all the twenty people who have died in these past few months did, either. Why is it attacking them?"

"I don't know. But Sam, find the pagan place, destroy what's there, and it should kill it."

Sam nodded, even though he knew Caleb couldn't see him.

"Okay."

"And Sam?"

Caleb's voice had now gone soft, almost apologetic, and Sam felt his stomach clench slightly.

"Yeah?"

"We're not sure killing it will save Dean. It might be too late."

Sam swallowed, hand closing around his brother's. He took a look at Dean's features, and stubborn determination flared up inside his chest.

"It won't."

Caleb didn't say anything, so Sam took it upon himself to break the silence.

"Caleb, all these info… It was Dad, wasn't it? It was him who figured it all out."

A sigh was blown out through the line.

"Yeah, it was John."

"Why didn't he call us himself?"

Sam's voce held no anger now. He just wanted to know. He wanted to have something to tell Dean, some sort of explanation. Any answer that wasn't, "I don't know".

"He thought it wasn't safe, Sam, calling you."

"But it was safe calling _you_."

"Apparently, yes." Caleb gave a small chuckle. "Hell, I hope so." He sobered up instantly. "Look, Sam, your Dad loves you very much, he tries to look out for you. He may not always do a great job, but he does his best. Just give him some credit, will you?"

Sam was silent, reflecting for a moment, his fingers still holding Dean's hand gently. He looked up to see Dean's prized necklace on the nightstand, the very same necklace that had been hanging from his brother's neck since the day their father had given it to him.

He smiled.

"All right."

"Good." Caleb sounded relieved.

"I gotta go now, I've got work to do."

"Sure. Call me if you need anything. And let me know about Dean, okay?"

"I will. Thanks Caleb."

Sam hung up and took a deep breath, taking a moment to stare off into space, processing everything he had just learned, a plan already taking form in his head.

He needed to learn about the town's history, and he also wanted to look up background information on the previous victims. Some of them could actually have had Welsh heritage, in which case there would be leads to follow.

There was some more hacking awaiting for him. Which meant he had to go back to the library.

He glanced at his brother. He didn't like the idea of leaving Dean, but it had to be done. Information didn't just come out of nowhere.

Despite what he had just told Caleb, Sam found himself back to cursing his father. If only he had come… Someone could stay with Dean. Instead, they were alone in this. Again.

Admittedly, that wasn't entirely fair: John's discovery would probably save Dean's life, but to Sam, research support just wasn't enough. Dean needed his father to be there, physically. And Sam had to admit with some reluctance that he needed him, too.

He shook his head. No point in dwelling something that couldn't be helped.

He leaned forward and gave Dean's arm yet another squeeze.

"I gotta go. Dad figured out a way to help you. You just hang on, all right?"

---

"_Wanted to thank you for the last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again."_

_Sam watched as his brother tried to reach out to the silent child, smoothening the piece of paper with almost fond gestures. _

"_How did you know to draw this? Did you know something bad was gonna happen?" _

_Lucas didn't reply, of course. He didn't even acknowledge Dean. He just kept on drawing, crayons running almost frantically over the paper. _

"_Maybe you could… nod yes or no for me." _

"Smart try," _Sam thought. _

_It didn't work. _

"_You're scared."_

_And then, Dean's expression changed. His features were awash with emotions Sam had never seen on his brother's face, pain he had never even sensed oozing from the green eyes. _

"_It's okay, I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happening to my mom." _

_Sam frowned. Dean had never talked about this. He never said anything about their mother's death. He would just relate the story of how she had died, with no personal details whatsoever. Sam had never known how Dean had felt that night, had never known how Dean felt about it in the present day. Something was telling him he was about to find out, and despite having always wished for Dean to tell him, he wasn't sure he was prepared to know. _

"_And I was scared, too." _

_Sam actually flinched at that. Getting to know about one of Dean's fears in the specific was a new thing in itself. Hearing Dean admitting to that fear was totally astonishing. _

"_I didn't feel like talking," Dean's voice broke, and Sam felt his heart clench, "just like you. But see, my Mom… I know she wanted me to be brave." There was a flicker in Dean's eyes that told Sam his brother was seeing their mother's face in his mind. It was gone as fast as it had come, but Sam had noticed. "And I think about that everyday." _

_Sam felt tears coming to fill his eyes, and he angrily blinked them back. Dean had tried to hold the most part of his emotions back as he said it, preventing them from bursting out. He managed, but Sam had seen. Sam could actually sense the pain fighting for release after all those years of being kept at bay. Once again, it didn't win, but it was enough to tear at the younger Winchester's heart. _

"_And I do my best to be brave." _

_There they were again, the memories in Dean's eyes. Memories Sam was not allowed to enter. The most private of Dean's possessions, all there, in his eyes, for a little boy to see. _

"_And maybe your Dad wants you to be brave, too."_

_Lucas froze at that, and the crayon fell from his hand. _

"_You did it, Dean," Sam thought proudly. "You've reached him." _

_The kid looked up at Dean, and the young man returned his gaze, holding his breath, just like Sam and Andrea were doing as they stood in the doorway. _

_Lucas reached out and put a drawing in Dean's hands. His brother looked down at it, and then back up to the kid. A look passed between them. Something Sam nor Andrea could ever be part of. _

---

Normally, Sam would have wondered where that memory had come from. But he didn't. Memories of Dean had been popping up out of nowhere for days now; an image flashing before him, Dean's voice talking into his ear, whole flashbacks like this one.

Sam didn't mind. They helped him keeping his hold on Dean, and so he was grateful.

He ran his fingers through Dean's short hair.

"Dean, should you see Mom… just tell her to wait, okay? Tell her you can't follow her, yet." He swallowed hard. "That's braveness, too."

He swung his bag over his shoulder.

"I'll be back soon. Whatever you do, don't follow the white light."

---

But there was no light.

They say that when you're in a coma, you can hear the voices of those around you when they speak. But Dean could hear nothing.

They say that when your time is near, you see your whole life flashing before your eyes. But Dean could see nothing.

They say that when death comes, all the fear goes away.

Bullshit. Dean _was_ dying. And Dean was scared.

TBC…

---

Additional Notes: Gwrach-y-rhybin is indeed a creature from Welsh folklore, just as John Rhys and his book, "Celtic Folklore" do exist. Gwrach-y-rhybin is indeed a darker sort of Banshee, but I played around a bit with the legend. If you're curious about how the real tale goes, take a look at the following link:

http/ 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks so much everyone for the lovely reviews! You just don't know how much I appreciate every single one of them.

So yeah, I'm shocked, too. But still, here it is, the next part.  
It's more of an interlude, actually. I wanted to play a bit with some things, but you'll see what I mean once you've read the chapter. Hope you'll enjoy even though there's no answers, yet.

Also, the songs mentioned in this chapter are all from Staind album "Break The Cycle".

---

PART 8 

Sam cursed. No pagan history. Not even the smallest sign of dark goddesses and foreign beliefs.

The younger Winchester dropped his head into his hands and exhaled slowly, feeling his shoulders burning with tension and pain and fear.

He'd been in there for hours. Hours that he should be spending at his brother's bedside. Hours that should be spent talking to Dean, holding his hand, watching him breathe, letting him know he was not alone.

Sam glanced at his cell phone for what was probably the millionth time, grateful for its silence, terrified that it would ring any minute and his ear would be filled with the sympathetic voice of Dr. Jackson telling him…

He swallowed and shook his head. No. He wouldn't allow it. He would see to it that call would never happen.

If the town's history couldn't help, maybe the history of one of the victims would.

He took out the list of names and proceeded to work some of what Dean used to call his "geek magic", hoping that a spell would be cast.

---

"You really should talk to him."

"We're not having this conversation, Caleb."

John was pacing up and down, trying to calm his nerves and keep his irritation under control, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"Oh, yes, we are, John."

Fuck. He liked the man, but he could be like a dog with a bone, not letting go until it was picked clean.

"The boy's scared shitless. He can't do this alone."

"Yes, he can," John insisted stubbornly. "I provided him with all the instruments to, didn't I?"

"You've given him _information_," Caleb didn't sound determined anymore. He sounded angry. Pissed as hell, in fact. "I could've done that myself. He doesn't need the hunter, John! He needs his father! They both do."

"I can't go to them."

John spoke flatly, because he knew it was the only way to keep his emotions in check. Should he raise his voice in anger, it would break.

The other hunter gave a deep sigh at the other end of the line, and his voice was gentler when he spoke next.

"Look, John, I understand…"

"No you don't!" John snapped, emotional control be damned. "You _don't_ understand. You don't know what the son of a bitch's capable of. I can't take any chance, Caleb."

"But John…"

"No. I'm already losing Dean, there's no way I'm losing Sam, as well."

And before Caleb had any chance to come up with a reply, John had snapped his phone shut.

---

"_Dad?" _

_That was enough. The pause after that single word was enough to make John's stomach clench painfully. _

"_I know I've left you messages before." Another pause. "I don't even know if you get them…" _

_Dean's voice sounded out of breath, as if he was trying to use up as little air as possible so that his lungs and throat wouldn't be strong enough to bring up the tears. _

_Exactly like John himself used to do from time to time. _

_Dean cleared his throat briefly, and John could almost feel the fight for control going on in his son's chest. _

"_But… I'm with Sam, and we're in Lawrence," he had to actually sit down at that, "and there's something in our old house." _

_Dean was blabbering now, the breath he had been holding leaving his lungs in a rush, words tumbling out of his mouth because he would never make it through the whole story if he was to pause. _

_Meanwhile, John had brought a hand to his mouth to contain the nausea and the pain and the scream that had suddenly climbed up his throat. _

"_I don't know if it's the thing that killed mom or not… but… I don't know what to do." _

_Dean's voice broke, and John's heart broke alongside with it. _

"_So… whatever you do, if you can get here… please… I need your help, Dad."_

_The line went dead. _

_John stared into space, frozen, phone still held to his ear. _

"I don't know what to do."

_He swallowed hard. _

"Me neither, son."

---

"_I failed you that time,"_ the man thought now as he sat at the small table. _"And I'm failing you again. How I wish I could run my hand through your hair, tell you how proud I am of you, how much I love you… You don't know how much I wish I could be there. But I can't. And I'm so sorry, Dean. So sorry, buddy." _

John Winchester buried his face in his hands, and in the coldness of yet another empty motel room, he wept.

---

Sam drove like crazy through the town, speeding as much as he dared to.

The music was blaring through the speakers, a habit he had picked up from Dean.

For the first time he understood why it was that his brother never seemed to drive without the radio being turned on.

Music cleared Sam's thoughts now, helping him focus, taking him by the hand and accompanying him through the moments. Not intrusive, but not feeble enough so that it couldn't be heard. A comforting presence that he now found himself almost relying upon.

Yes, he understood, what Black Sabbath and Metallica and Blue Oyster Cult and all the others meant to Dean: safety.

Dean could let his emotions out through a song without actually showing them, picking a piece that would beat to the rhythm of the thoughts running through his head.

Sam understood that now.

_If ever you had said to me before_

_That I would live this life that I am _

_Living now I guess it's all so strange_

_To feel the way I do inside but_

_Have so much that I could feel some_

_Pride for in my life so why is it that _

_I feel like this _

The clear voice of Aaron Lewis filled the silence.

Dean loved Staind. Amazingly enough, it was the only band he and Sam agreed on.

Sam had given the album to his brother that year for his birthday.

A college friend had introduced Sam himself to the band, and he had liked them immediately even though it wouldn't usually be his genre.

But Sam had fallen in love, because when he'd heard the beat of the music, he had thought, "Dean"; and when he'd heard the lyrics, he had thought, "Me".

He hadn't told Dean, of course, that he was giving him the album of a band because he thought it held a little of both of them. He could only imagine his brother's horrified reaction at such a chick-flick action from his part.

When Dean had first slipped the cassette tape in (because of course, Dean didn't do CDs like everyone else), and had heard the lyrics to "For You", the first thing he had said had been,

"Dude, the guy's got some issues!".

When he had heard the lyrics to "Suffer", he had said,

"Your friend here needs a shrink. I mean, seriously."

When Dean had heard the lyrics to "Fade", he had fallen silent, and Sam had wondered and guessed but hadn't said anything.

When the chords and drums of "Can't Believe" blared out of the speakers, Dean had turned to him, broad grin on his lips, and said,

"Dude, anguished lyrics and mind-blowing music… Sounds like our soundtrack, uh?"

And Sam had known Dean understood.

Now, as his hands clutched the wheel tightly, words and music for "Change" still filling the Impala, Sam prayed he and Dean would be granted another song together.

---

"You're back."

His reflection stared back at him.

The mirror was darkened, as dark was everything else around him.

Provided that there actually _was_ anything around him. He wouldn't count on it. In fact, he was pretty sure there was nothing at all, just him and the other half of himself suspended in emptiness interwoven with nightmares; and he wondered whether this was the last test before dying.

"I'm back," he nodded.

"You're dying."

A sure statement. Of course, it couldn't have been a question: his own self would know.

He nodded again, wordlessly.

"You're scared."

Again, no question.

But he replied nonetheless.

"I am."

"You didn't say goodbye."

"Sammy'll understand. I suck at goodbyes."

"You're in pain."

Dean wanted to shut it up. He wanted to crash his fist through the glass and smash the damn mirror to pieces. But he didn't. Instead, he found himself speaking again. Because no matter how awful, this was better than the nothingness he'd been enveloped in before.

"Will it go away? Before I'm dead, will I feel peace?"

"You're still bleeding," his reflection said, and Dean could indeed see the blood tears leaking from his eyes, could feel them running down his cheeks, thick and heavy. "You'll continue to bleed until it's over. It's what you deserve."

Nothingness came rushing back and swallowed the mirror.

Once again, there was no sight, no taste, no feel, no smell, no sound.

They say the trouble with life is there is no background music. But that's the trouble with death, too.

Because now, as he lay waiting in the darkness, Dean wished for a song.

TBC…


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: OMG I finally did it! I'm so sorry about making you wait so long, but this chapter really drove me crazy. I just couldn't seem to write it down right. Now, after reading this, you may actually thing that it's in fact a useless chapter, that says nothing more than what you already knew from the previous parts of the story. But, I assure you, it's not. If you process the info you'll gather from this chapter and combine it with what you've learnt before, you'll actually find the solution to this nasty thing. Can you do it before Sam? grins

---

PART 9 

The diner was quiet when Sam entered. Just a few customers, but seeing as it was 3.00 in the afternoon, he wasn't really surprised.

"Hey kid," the man behind the counter greeted him when he came to sit down on one of the stools. "What can I give you?"

"Coffee, please. Black."

Sam never drank his coffee black, that was Dean's thing. He liked it sweet and oozing with sugar. But he felt the need to have a little of Dean with him right now, even if it was just a cup of black coffee.

He tried to imagine the conversation they could have afterwards.

"_You know, Dean, the day I saved your life, I drank black coffee." _

"_You don't like black coffee, Sam." _

"_No, but I needed you with me, somehow." _

"_Dude, you're such a damn girl!"_

Sam smirked to himself. That conversation would never happen: he had, after all, that much dignity left to never let Dean hear about this. But he _would_ save Dean's life. And he would do it today.

The coffee arrived, and he reached out and took a healthy swing, not being able to hold back a grimace at the bitter taste.

"_Damn,"_ he thought, barely holding himself from spluttering. _"How the hell does Dean drink this stuff?" _

"So, new in town? I don't remember seeing you around much."

Sam looked up into the kind face of the diner's owner, a fifty-something man with sharp blue eyes that sported many lines of laughter at their corners. They made Sam want to smile just looking at them. Or they would if he wasn't in so much pain. Presently, they just tugged up a corner of his mouth.

"Just passing through," he replied vaguely. Then he squared his shoulders, preparing himself to jump into the acting. "Actually, I'm a reporter. I'm working on a story about Welsh heritage through America, and I understand that your family has Welsh origins, Mr. Alban?"

The man looked at him in surprise and then laughed.

"Well who would've thought we'd end up in a story somehow!" he said. "Anyway, it's Tom. Mr. Alban is my father. Who by the way happens to be in the back and is probably more qualified than me to help you out with your article."

"You think I could ask him a few questions?"

"Sure," Tom nodded, motioning for him to come behind the counter. "It will actually do him some good, to talk about something distracting. He hasn't talked much since…" he hesitated for a beat. "Since Mom died last month."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam said, although he had of course known all along.

"Don't be," Tom smiled sadly. "We were expecting it."

"Still don't make it easier," Sam said.

"No," Tom agreed grimly. "No, it doesn't."

---

Davis Alban's blue eyes were as sharp as his son's. Sharper, if that was even possible, and not nearly as laughing.

Sam was feeling mighty uncomfortable under the old man's scrutiny as the two of them sat one across the other at a table in the back room of the diner.

"So what is it that you want to know exactly?" the man asked. His tone was hurried and detached, as if he was talking business. For a split second Sam almost thought that he was.

"Well… why don't we start with when did your family move to America?"

"My grandfather brought his wife and kids to New York in the late '800s. The family moved around a bit until I finally ended up here."

"And where is the family from, originally?"

"Swansea. It's a pretty large city back in the Wales."

"I see…" Sam nodded. "I'm also interested in Welsh folklore as in part of people's lives. Any… uh… is there any particular tale running in your family? Has anything out of the ordinary ever happened?"

"_Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth,"_ Dean's voice spoke up in his mind.

He silenced it quickly to stare at the old man, expecting to see the are-you-nuts look everyone usually gave him at this point.

Instead he was surprised to see that Mr. Alban's gaze had sharpened some more, and the man was now watching him intently and with a hint of suspicion that yet didn't seem to hold his sanity in doubt.

"Well, there is something…" the old man began. He stopped, arching a grey eyebrow at Sam. "Shouldn't you need a notebook for this or something?"

"_Crap." _

"No, it's okay. I'm just gathering some information, I'll sort them out later."

The man leaned back in his chair and grinned knowingly at him. The smile didn't reach his eyes though, and they hardened.

"You're not a reporter, are you?"

"_Fuckfuckfuck." _

"Uh…"

"Who the hell are you?"

Sam blew out a breath and leaned slightly forward on the table, crossing his hands over the cool surface.

"Look, Mr. Alban, I know this is going to sound crazy, but… I know what happened to your wife." A flicker of anger, pain and surprise flashed through the man's blue eyes, but Sam didn't stop. "I know she died of an illness she had escaped from years ago. And it is no coincidence."

Mr. Alban's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"What are you saying, boy?"

"I'm saying that over the last few months twenty people have died of something that had already given them a brush with death before, and that it just can't be normal."

"And you think it has something to do with me?"

Sam saw the anger now written openly over the man's features and immediately matched it with a steely glare of his own.

"I don't know if it has something to do with _you_ in particular," he said coldly, "but I do know it's got something to do with your family's homeland. Now, Mr. Alban," he paused, staring intently at the man, "my brother's dying. I've got to stop it. So whatever it is… whatever you think it could be… please tell me."

Davis Alban stared at him for long moments.

"What's your brother's name?"

Sam frowned in confusion.

"Dean."

The old man paled.

"Dean?"

The younger Winchester felt a pang of alarm in his gut.

"What is it?"

The man looked down at the table, his features darkening considerably.

"I've heard the Gwrach-y-rhybin call out your brother's name."

At that, the alarm sharply turned into a sudden surge of terror that came up to choke him.

"W-what?" Sam stammered.

Mr. Alban sighed heavily.

"You'll think I'm nuts, boy, but here's what's happening to your brother: Gwrach-y-rhybin is a kind of Welsh spirit…"

"I know what it is," Sam cut him off sharply. "And I know what it's doing to my brother and what it did to others before."

It was the old man's turn to frown. His eyes no more hard as stone, he looked now more surprised than wary.

"Who are you?" his tone was now curious, no more harsh.

Sam's eyes were the ones boring into the old man now as they glittered with the steel of fierce determination.

"It doesn't matter. I want to know why this creature is doing what it's doing, and what exactly you and your family have to do with it."

---

"Gwrach-y-rhybin is like a domestic spirit. It chooses families, you know. Like a curse."

Sam nodded bitterly at that. He knew exactly what it meant for a family to be cursed.

"It doesn't usually choose at random. You have to piss her off. And we did. By inadvertently building our family house on ground that had been sacred back in the pagan days."

"Who did it?" Sam asked.

"My great grandfather did. He really had no idea. Actually, an old woman back in Swansea tried to warn him, telling him that not all the ground was available. But he didn't listen, thought she was nuts. Interesting, because later on, everyone thought _he_ was the crazy one when he started going around saying his family had brought the wrath of a Gwrach-y-rhybin upon itself." The old man grinned humorlessly. "Anyway, from then on, whenever a member of the family had a brush with death, Gwrach-y-rhybin would be there. Accidents, fevers… Whatever it was, we had no chance of survival, even when the odds shouldn't have been that bad. She wouldn't cause them, you see, but she would ensure we didn't escape. It was never, 'Dad, I wrecked the car but don't worry, I'm fine' in our family. It was more like, 'Dad, I wrecked the car and this is my ghost talking'." The man gave an empty chuckle that made Sam's blood grow cold. "When my grandfather came to America, he was hoping to leave the curse behind."

"But it followed him here," Sam said, and the old man nodded.

"Not only that. It actually grew worse."

Sam frowned.

"Worse? Worse how?"

The old man wouldn't look at him as he answered.

"You see, when I was about ten, my father had a car accident. A pretty nasty one."

Sam was about to say, "I'm sorry", when the man surprised him with the following revelation.

"But he came out perfectly unscathed."

Sam blinked.

"What? He escaped the curse?"

"Sort of."

"How?"

Sam's knuckles were white now from how hard they were gripping the edge of the table. So there was another way to save Dean. A sure way that would grant him his brother's survival.

Mr. Alban shrugged.

"We never could figure it out and pointed it down to sheer dumb luck."

"It can't be just luck!" Sam cried in frustration, his nerves grating against his skin. "We're dealing with a _curse_! You don't get lucky with curses!"

The old man actually squirmed at that. He had lost all his previous cold boldness.

"I don't know what to tell you, boy. My dad did. Somehow."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly to maintain his composure.

"Okay. All right," he said curtly. "Then what happened?"

"Well, the Gwrach-y-rhybin got even more pissed 'cause a member of the family had managed to escape. So she extended the curse to anyone around us. And every time she took someone, she'd make sure we'd know, screaming out their name. That's how I knew your brother's name. She screamed it out a few days ago."

Sam stared at him in disbelief.

"You're telling me the _whole town_ is cursed!"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Holy shit… And all this time, none of you did anything to stop it!"

"What were we supposed to do?" the old man snapped back. "Everywhere any of us would go, it'd be the same. Dad couldn't bear it, thought it was his fault," Sam resisted the sudden urge to say that it actually was. "So he took his own life."

Sam sighed wearily and took his face into his hands, processing everything he had just heard.

"Jesus…" he breathed.

"Sometimes guilt does that to a man," the old man said sagely.

Sam was about to snap and say that it wasn't his damn ancestors he was sorry for, when the man's words suddenly sunk in.

"_This is killing me, Sam… the guilt." _

Surely Dean hadn't meant that literally? Surely now that everything was out in the open, it would be okay? Surely… Sam felt sick.

"Kid? Kid, you all right?"

He blinked to find the old man leaning slightly forward across the table, staring at him in concern.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, feeling the slight dampness of sweat under his fingers.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "So, uh… I've heard a theory about Gwrach-y-rhybin. They say it could be some kind of pagan goddess or something."

"Ah, yes. I've heard it, too."

"So?"

"So?"

Sam glared in frustration.

"So is it true?"

Mr. Alban shrugged.

"Could be. I really have no idea."

"Is there some pagan site or something here?" Sam asked hopefully.

To his horror, the man shook his head.

"No. I told you, boy, the only reason why the bitch is here is us."

---

Sam had hot tears burning in his eyes, his hands gripping the wheel in a white-knuckled hold.

"_I told you, boy, the only reason why the bitch is here is us."_

No pagan site. No bones to burn. No exorcism to perform. He had nothing. Nothing, but a bunch of useless information on a family history.

"_How do I break it? How do I fucking break it?"_ Sam thought desperately.

"_You don't break a curse. You get out of its way."_

Dean's words from when they had got to deal with that ancient Native American curse rushed back to him.

But there was no way out, so Sam had just to figure out a way to break this one.

"_First time for everything, Dean." _

TBC…


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: As usual, thanks so much to all of you reviewing. Sorry about not replying to each one of you individually, but RL is really busy these days. I'll try to reply to all of you next time, promise. Thanks again!

---

PART 10 

Sam paced the room like a caged animal.

Thoughts were running through his head, so fast he could barely grasp them. They were nearly as bad as visions, the way his head was threatening to split right in two like a ripen melon.

He came to a stop by the bed and reached down to run his fingers once more through his brother's hair, half-hoping Dean would crack open an eyelid and tell him to "back off this instant if he didn't want him to get up and kick his ass".

Predictably though, he got no response, and Dean didn't stir or acknowledge him in any way.

Sam could feel that time was running thin, but he was at a loss of what to do and on the verge of panic.

"I'm gonna get you through this," he vowed with a confidence he didn't feel anymore, to reassure himself as much as his unconscious brother. "I don't know how, but I'm gonna get you through this."

He snorted inwardly. So much for reassurance.

But that did not matter, he would find a way. He may not feel just as confident, but he was as determined as ever, and that would just have to do.

Then, suddenly, it struck him.

"_You're telling me the _whole town_ is cursed!" _

"_I told you, boy, the only reason why the bitch is here is us."_

It wasn't Dean the Gwrach-y-rhybin wanted. His brother had nothing to do with this, he had just been caught in the middle.

"_You don't break a curse. You get out of its way." _

Out of the way. The answer had been staring at him in the face the whole time, and Sam mentally kicked himself for not staring back sooner. He had to get Dean out of there, out of the way. Now.

He was halfway down the corridor, preparing himself for the fight that surely would ensue with Dr. Jackson over his intention of checking his brother out AMA, when he was struck by yet another thought. What if it wasn't enough?

What if it didn't work and Dean worsened? There would be no medical attention then. Could he risk it? He quickly decided that no, he couldn't.

So he retreated back to Dean's room and sat down, reaching out to hold Dean's hand in his, drawing strength from the contact, forcing himself to focus.

He took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached."

"Fuck," Sam swore under his breath. Then he growled frantically to the answering machine, "Dad, I need some more information. Now. Will you answer your fucking phone!"

Three minutes later, Sam's phone rang.

---

"Sammy? What's going on? How's Dean?"

Sam was so shocked that for a few moments all he did was sit there, with the phone in one hand and Dean's hand clutched tightly in the other, staring owlishly into space.

"Sam? Sammy, talk to me. What's happening?"

Sam was torn. He wanted to yell at his father, ask him why wasn't he there with them, why hadn't he called before, and did he not care that Dean was dying?

But he also wanted to tell him that he missed him, that he needed him there, with him, right now. He wanted to ask him to please ignore the anger that would surely be marring his voice, 'cause he really wasn't in the mood for a fight.

He wanted to tell him how scared he was, and how lifeless Dean's fingers felt already, as they rested limply in his hold.

But all he managed to blurt out was,

"You called back."

And Sam couldn't see and he would never know, but John physically winced at that, a the quiet bewilderment in his son's voice.

"Yes, I called back," he said, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice and consequently of Sam's earshot. "Sam, what's going on?" he asked again. "Is Dean okay?"

Sam felt anger swelling back up in his chest at the absurdity of the question.

"No, he's not okay, Dad!" he spat into the phone. "He's dying!"

There was a brief stunned pause at the other end of the line.

"What the hell…" John muttered at last. "Sam, did you follow my instructions?"

"You mean the ones you gave Caleb to pass on because you couldn't pick up the phone yourself?" Sam said bitterly, voice harsh and grating as sandpaper.

"Sam, calling you wasn't safe," John said very quietly, trying to hold his own mounting irritation in check.

"Calling Caleb was, though," Sam retorted immediately. "Apparently this danger that looms over us doesn't concern him, does it? It's safe to let your friends know where you are, but not your own sons."

"Caleb doesn't know where I am," John argued defensively, and he cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, wondering why exactly was he sounding like a sulking ten-year old.

"That's not the point, Dad!" Sam snapped.

"_Yeah, I know it isn't,"_ John thought to himself. _"Don't know where that one came from." _

But he didn't say that. Instead, he said,

"Sam, you don't understand…"

"I _do_ understand, Dad!" Sam raged. "The demon always comes first. I do understand."

John clenched his jaw in anger, his eyes hardening as they bore holes through the wall, glaring at someone who wasn't there.

"Now you listen to me, Sam…" he began furiously.

"No. Look, I don't have time to fight," Sam cut him off, regardless of the fact that this time he had been the one to start the argument to begin with.

Before his father had time to point out just that, Sam had filled him into what he had learned from Davis Alban and told him about his recent plan of getting Dean out of there as soon as possible.

There was a long pensive silence at the other end of the line, and for once Sam didn't break it, waiting more or less patiently for the man to speak up.

Finally, John did.

"No, that won't work," he said, shattering Sam's newfound hope with four words that had the impact of a punch to the young man's stomach. "The Gwrach-y-rhybin won't allow yet another man to escape her verdict. She'll follow you."

"Then what do I do? Sit here, hold his hand and wait for him to die!" Sam snapped in frustration. "That's not gonna happen!"

"That's not what I told you to do," John said harshly. "Look, the Gwrach-y-rhybin's angry with this family? You get her what she wants."

Sam frowned, and he was suddenly afraid to ask.

"What are you saying, Dad?"

"Sam, a man in that family escaped the curse. You either find out how, or you make up for it to her."

"How? How can I make up for it?"

John hesitated. He knew Sam wouldn't like it, he didn't like it himself.

"Well… maybe you can make a deal with this thing."

There was a stunned silence, in which Sam tried to process his father's words, hoping against hope that he'd heard it all wrong.

"A deal!" he cried then, letting go of Dean's hand and jumping up from the chair in shock. "What… Are you crazy!"

"Look, Sam," John tried to reason, "it might be the only way. See if you can bargain Dean's life. There must be something else the Gwrach-y-rhybin wants from that family, otherwise she wouldn't have stuck around this long, broken curse or not."

This he knew for certain. There just had to be something the creature wanted from those people, something she hadn't managed to take yet. If they were to find what it was, they might be able to save Dean's life. He didn't like it in the least, knowing that the family was going to pay the price in some way, but it was them over his son, and despite hating himself for it, John didn't think it was really a choice at all.

"I am _not_ striking a bargain with a dark creature, Dad!" Sam snapped incredulously. "What the hell are you thinking!"

"Sam…"

"No. You know what, forget it. I shouldn't have asked for your help in the first place," Sam cut him off frantically, utterly shocked by his father's suggestion. He, too, knew the price the Alban's would have to pay would be too high to bear, whatever it was. "I'm gonna find a way myself, and nobody will get caught in the crossfire." He raked a hand through his hair, striding around the room. "Jesus, Dad, I can't believe you would…" His voice trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Sam…" John tried again.

"Forget I ever called. And don't worry, Dean's gonna be fine."

With that, Sam hit the end call button before his father had any chance to say anything else. He thought he'd said enough.

---

John closed his phone and let himself fall onto the mattress, the springs creaking ominously under his weight.

He himself couldn't believe what he had just told Sam. But it was Dean's life at stake, and as a father, he'd do anything, _anything_ to ensure that it wouldn't be lost. Even if it meant someone else got "caught in the crossfire", as Sam had put it.

Besides, the one being caught in the crossfire to begin with had been Dean, and John was willing to use any means to get him out.

"_Jesus, Dad, I can't believe you would…"_

The shock in his son's voice burned fiercely into his chest. Burying his face in his hands, John wondered when exactly had the line of his morality got this blurred.

---

Sam stuffed his phone into his pocket and let himself fall onto the chair. He took his face in his hands and let out a shuddering sigh.

He felt tears coming to sting the back of his eyes, and it took all he had in him not to let them take him over. Everything he had done up until now, every effort, every endless hour spent in that damn library… all for nothing.

"God…" he whispered brokenly, slumping forward, elbows resting on his knees.

Sam didn't know how long he sat like that, petrified in his own fear. After a while (long or short, it didn't really matter), he reached out to touch Dean's forehead. And he froze.

He didn't know why, he just couldn't bring himself to touch his brother.

Everything suddenly slammed into him, and he let his hand fall back limply on his knees under the crippling force of it all.

"Can you hear me?"

The words were out of his mouth before his brain could even register his lips had moved, the whisper so frail he almost didn't hear it himself.

"Dean?"

Once again, the beeps of the monitors were his only answer, and the silence was suddenly deafening, even his own breathing sounding as loud as a gunshot in the eerie stillness.

"Jesus…"

He scrubbed at his face with both hands, scowling as his fingers came out wet with the tears that were stubbornly cling at his lashes and that he just as stubbornly refused to let fall.

He let his arms fall back on his lap, propping them on his knees, long fingers hanging limply between his legs, and he hung his head, staring down at the sterile floor without really seeing it at all.

"You know, I…" he began hesitantly, licking his lips and not daring to look up at his brother even though he knew only too well those eyes wouldn't be open to stare accusingly at him. "I shouldn't put this burden on you. I mean, you lying there and all… I'm supposed to be the strong one now. But truth is, I'm scared, Dean. So fucking scared." His voice broke a little over the last words, and he didn't bother to attempt to clear his throat. He knew there'd be no use. "I don't know how to fight this for you. I don't know what to do. Dad… Dad said some things, but I… I can't." The lump came to fill his throat, making his vocal chords tremble and his voce shaking some more, dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. "I'd die for you, Dean, you know I would. But I can't kill for you." He knew exactly that would be the price to pay, the Alban's life, one way or another. "These… these are innocent people, who found a curse hanging over their head from the very first day they were born." Sam swallowed. To that, he could relate, and his chest ached at the thought of their own course; his, and Dean's, and Dad's, too. "They don't know how to break it, and neither do I," he admitted again, feeling the shame burn at the pit of the stomach. "What Dad suggested… it would take their lives. I just… I just can't do that, Dean. And I know you wouldn't want it, either." His brother would be furious if he were to strike a bargain with that thing, not to mention having some other innocent dying to save him, like back in Nebraska. God, this was a deja-vu in so many ways… "I'm sorry, Dean." Sam looked up then, tears moving from his eyelashes to pool in his eyes. "I'm not strong enough. I'm so fucking sorry."

He blinked, and the tears came rolling down, hot and burning. He barely felt them as he just followed the lead of his bubbling emotions and reached out to lean his head over the mattress, burying his face in Dean's neck, the weak, thready pulse beating in his brother's jugular fluttering imperceptibly over his brow. Sam draped an arm carefully over Dean's chest in a half hug, desperate to burrow as close to his brother as he could, not caring about any chick-flick thing, not caring that, had he been more coherent, he would never do such a thing himself.

Not caring about anything, except that Dean was dying, and that he truly was unable to stop it.

---

Sam startled when the phone rang. Hours, minutes or seconds later. For all he knew, it could easily have been days.

He dragged his body up, limbs heavy and movements slow and floating as if in a dream.

With his eyes still burning and the dry tracks of tears on his cheeks, he fumbled for his phone and brought it to his ear, pressing the button with a trembling thumb.

"Yeah," he croaked, voice rough and scratchy. And not giving a damn about who was at the other end of the line that was going to hear him like this.

"Oh God… your brother…" came a distressed voice.

"He's alive," he replied automatically, numbly, not really knowing who it was that he was telling it to.

"Oh. Oh, thank God. Look, boy…"

The "boy thing" had the effect of a switch, and the discarded pieces of Sam's brain clicked into place. The voice took on a corporeal form in his head and he saw Davis Alban talking to him back at the diner.

"Mr. Alban," he said without emotion.

"Uh… Yes, it's me," the old man sounded a little confused, then he cleared his throat. His voice came uncharacteristically hesitant when it spoke next. "Listen, Sam, I… uh… I haven't told you everything about this whole ugly mess."

And the numbness in Sam's body vanished.

TBC…


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks a lot for your reviews! They are so appreciated!

---

PART 11

Davis Alban froze in the doorway.

Sam sat at a young man's bedside, his shoulders slumped, head hung low, as if his neck was too tired to support it anymore, a limp hand clutched tightly in both of his. There was a pleading in the way he was holding those pale fingers that made Mr. Alban's throat close up.

He took a long look at the figure lying in the bed. Sharp features, delicate sprays of freckles, blonde hair. He tried to imagine what colors the closed eyes could be. Blue? Dark? Green? He tried to imagine them sparkling with life.

He continued to stare. He had a feeling Sam's brother must have been a very strong person once. But now... The old man felt a shiver run down his spine. The kid looked dead already. And all Davis Alban could hear was a voice in his head, whispering, _"You did this."_

Forcing himself out of his grim reverie, the man stepped into the room. Sam looked up and nodded in acknowledgement.

"So this is your brother," Mr. Alban said, dragging up a chair to the other side of the bed.

"Yeah," Sam said in a whisper, fingers unconsciously going to Dean's hair, brushing over them ever so slightly.

The knot in the old man's stomach clenched some more. The slightest of movements, all the pain in the world.

"Well, hello, Dean," Mr. Alban said, forcing his voice to be steady.

Sam smiled a little, and the old man had suddenly the impression of being stared at through the eyes of a child.

The door opened, a kind-faced doctor choosing that moment to enter. He looked surprised at seeing the visitor.

"Hey Davis," he greeted.

"Hello, Nathan," Mr. Alban smiled back.

"I didn't know these boys were friends of yours."

"We met at the diner. Thought I'd stop by."

Dr. Jackson nodded and walked up to the left side of the bed, where Sam hovered apprehensively. Not many people could manage to hover sitting in a chair, but Sam Evans apparently did.

The dark-skinned man checked Dean's vitals and wrote down some quick notes. He forced himself to meet the young man's eyes, knowing that the hope would still be there, lurking.

He heaved a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Evans," he said softly. "It's not looking good."

Sam swallowed hard, Adam apple working convulsively.

"But... is he..."

"He's worsening. I'm afraid we're talking about days now."

Sam didn't say anything. He couldn't, breath wouldn't come to him. He felt the tears pooling up, and he desperately wished for numbness.

Which was the exact same wish Mr. Alban was experiencing as he watched this kid fall apart right before his eyes.

Dr. Jackson excused himself with a nod and walked out with heavy steps.

_"Oh, please,"_ Sam's mind suddenly started to chant. _"Please, please, please."_

_"SAMMY!" _

Sam's body jerked as if hit by a bullet. He looked down frantically at his brother.

"Dean?" he whispered in astonishment.

_"Sammy! Help me!"_

"Boy?" Mr. Alban ventured, frowning worriedly. "Sam, are you okay?"

"Dean?"

_"SAM!"_

And to Sam, everything went white.

---

_Dean was trapped. Dean was waiting. Dean was scared. Terrified, in fact. _

_Sam knew it. He could feel it. _

_He could hear the beating of a drum, echoing all around in the darkness, and he knew without a doubt that it was Dean's heart. It beat fast with the rush of fear, but it sounded strong, like there was nothing wrong with it at all. Sam thought that it was most ironic. _

"_SAMMY!" _

_Sam felt his own heartbeat accelerating. Never had he heard Dean's voice sound like this. Raw, desperate. It sent needles of dread all over his skin. _

"_DEAN!" he called back as he advanced in the dark. _

"_SAM!" _

"_DEAN! WHERE ARE YOU?" _

"_SAM! GET ME OUTTA HERE!"_

"_DEAN!"_

_Before he knew it, Sam was picking up speed, jogging, running. Everything was pitch black, but he didn't stumble. Truth to be told, he wasn't even sure there actually_ was _something. It felt like a void, some empty strip in the texture of reality, some sort of limbo. _

_Yet he kept on surely, as if running in broad daylight. _

_Which in a way, he was. Dean's emotions were so strong that they traced out a path impossible not to sense. _

_Sam ran for what felt like hours. He ran until his lungs burned. And then he stopped cold. _

"_DEAN!" _

_A glass… not even a mirror… a whole wall made of glass blocked his way. _

_Behind it, Dean stood, staring out with wide eyes, palms open and pressed up against the glass as if it was the only thing keeping him there, the only life line he could cling to. _

_His true life line, though, turned out to be Sam, as the younger Winchester rushed up to him, slamming his own hands against the wall, punching at it in a rush of panic. _

_"Dean!" _

_"Sammy." _

_It was a whisper, but Sam heard it. Loud and clear. And it went straight to his heart. _

_They stood like that, face to face, palms almost touching. Almost. They both cursed that barrier._

_"Please, get me outta here." _

_"Dean..." _

_"Please, Sammy. What's happening to me?" _

_Sam swallowed hard, unable to look away from Dean's eyes pleading for answers. _

_"I don't know," he said, the words tasting like bile on his tongue. _

_"Please, Sammy..." _

_"Alright, just… Just hold on, Dean," Sam tried to reassure. _

_"Please, Sammy..." _

_"Dean..." _

_Dean pressed his palms harder against the wall, reaching out to his brother in a way he never had, and Sam did the same. But despite their best efforts, they couldn't touch. Sam couldn't grab Dean's arm and drag him away. _

_"Please, Sammy..."_

---

"Oh God…"

"Sam? Hey. Come on, boy, snap out of it."

Sam blinked to find himself crouched on the floor, Davis Alban's arms holding him up, fingers clutching at his shoulders, sharp blue eyes staring at him worriedly.

He looked back with wide, terrified eyes, hands reaching out on instinct.

"Oh God… oh God…"

"Sam? You with me?"

"Oh God…" was all Sam managed to mumble, over and over.

He disentangled himself from the old man's hold and managed to haul himself upright, grabbing at the mattress.

"Dean…" he said, reaching out for his brother's arm with trembling fingers. "Oh God…"

"Sam, should I call a doctor?" Mr. Alban said, getting up himself, eyeing the boy's complexion. He looked almost as pale as his brother, cold sweat glistening over his skin, body shivering.

Sam managed to focus on his surroundings well enough to shake his head and look up at the man.

"No," he said. "No, I'm okay."

His fingers closed tighter around his brother's arm.

"Oh God… Dean…"

He suddenly felt a surge of nausea, one that he couldn't control. With the images still fresh in his mind and the emotions still throbbing in his chest, Sam staggered to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and still muttering a broken _"Oh God…"_ over and over between a spasm and the other.

When the vomit gave way to dry heaves, he let himself slide to the floor, clinging at the sink and leaning his forehead against the cool surface. Tears were running down his face, and Sam couldn't tell whether they were from the painful spasms in his abdomen, the pain in his heart, or the fear in his brain.

---

Davis Alban sat at Dean's bedside, and he watched. Intently, like he'd rarely done before.

He studied the slack features, the dark circles under the eyes, the hand resting limply on the mattress. He studied the broad chest barely rising and falling, he listened to the beeping of the monitors.

And he could feel death's breath hovering over the boy.

His ears were ringing with the scream he had heard days ago, the high-pitched voice calling out Dean's name like an impatient mother who's calling her child in for dinner.

He wondered whether she was already there, in the room. Watching, waiting, like him.

The old man looked around briefly and shook his head, trying to keep the shivers of guilt that threatened to wrack his body at bay. She wasn't there, he would have known. She hadn't come. Yet.

The bathroom door opened and Sam came out. He was still extremely pale, but he seemed steadier on his feet.

Nevertheless, he sank down gratefully on the chair.

Mr. Alban watched as the boy's eyes went straight to his brother, never once acknowledging him. Sam reached out to grasp Dean's hand in his, and his fingers trembled.

It went on like that for long moments, Sam staring at Dean with eyes filled with tears that he wouldn't let fall, hand gripping his brother's fingers so tight that his knuckles went white.

It almost looked as if Sam was conveying something through his touch, talking to the unconscious man through his eyes, and Davis Alban wouldn't be surprised to find that Dean was hearing whatever Sam's silent words were.

Unwilling to break the spell, Mr. Alban waited patiently, and when Sam looked up at him, the boy's eyes were clear and glimmering with the determination.

"Spill it," he said. "All of it."

Mr. Alban frowned. Not so much at the flat-out order, but at Sam's still haggard appearance.

"You sure you're up to it, boy? Maybe you should get some rest first."

"I'm fine," Sam said harshly.

He all but glared at the old man, and Mr. Alban finally had to give in with a sigh.

"All right," he said. "You obviously remember what I told you about my father, him escaping the curse and all."

Sam nodded.

"Well, I haven't told you everything about him."

Sam edged a little further on the brink of his chair, hope stirring all over again in his chest. Maybe he was just about to be given a way. Maybe Dean was just about to get out of there. He shivered as he recalled his… vision? Dream? What had it been exactly? It didn't matter. Not now.

"_Here it comes, Dean,"_ he thought with childlike excitement. _"We're gonna smash that fucking glass."_

"My Dad's still around."

Sam waited. Nothing else came. He blinked. Surely that couldn't be the life-saving revelation he'd been expecting?

"Uh… He must be pretty old," he blurted out in confusion, mentally smacking himself at just how dumb that had sounded.

Mr. Alban didn't smile.

"No, he's dead. But he's _still around_," he said pointedly.

Sam frowned.

"What are you saying exactly?" he said, stomach knotting back up.

The old man cleared his throat.

"Well, you see, my Dad's a spirit now..."

"I got that."

"The Gwrach-y-rhybin... She wants his soul."

"Excuse me?"

Mr. Alban shrugged uncomfortably.

"I guess, since she couldn't predict his death right, she wants to at least obtain his soul. You know, to make up for it. That's why she's still around."

Silence followed, in which Sam tried to process the words. When realization hit, so did anger.

"Your Dad's a ghost," he said, voice dangerously flat.

"Yes."

"And she wants him."

"Yes."

"And you didn't do anything to solve this mess."

"My Dad's solving it."

Sam's eyes narrowed to slits.

"How?" he asked, a threat hanging in his voice.

Davis Alban swallowed. He knew Sam wouldn't like what he was about to tell him. He'd never felt so uneasy around a human being before. Especially not around someone this young. The boy unnerved him.

He'd never felt this guilty, either. But then again, he'd never had to watch one of the victims die this closely.

"He's bargaining."

"Bargaining?"

"He lets the curse continue to hit the town so that the Gwrach-y-rhybin is satisfied with her announcements of death and allows him to keep his soul."

Sam stared, and then he saw red.

"Your father's responsible for this?!"

"No. The Gwrach-y-rhybin is."

"Bullshit!" he cried, jumping to his feet in fury. "He's letting this happen! _You_ are letting this happen!" He pointed to Dean's unconscious form. "You did this!" he shouted in rage.

Mr. Alban looked down, his throat burning with the lump shame had put there.

"I'm sorry," he choked out.

Sam couldn't believe his ears. Countless of lives, to save one soul. _Dean_'s life…

"If I could only take it all back…"

"You did nothing! All those people died, you knew, and you did nothing!"

There was a piercing sound that made them both jump as the alarm went off, matching Sam's scream.

The youngest Winchester blanched and whirled around.

"Oh no..." he breathed, rushing back to his brother's side. "God, no..."

But, although beeping crazily, the monitor wasn't showing a flat line.

"What the hell's going on? Why won't a doctor come?" Mr. Alban muttered, shooting out of his chair and marching straight out of the room. "Don't worry, Sam, I'm getting help!" he called over his shoulder.

Sam barely heard him. He stared down at his brother, completely at a loss.

"Dean?"

Dean coughed, long and weak and painful. Then his eyes fluttered opened.

"Sam..."

Sam's legs almost gave out at the rough whisper. He knelt down by Dean's bed and took his hand one more time.

"I'm here," he reassured. "God..." he choked out to himself. "It's all right, Dean."

Dean's eyes, opened to slits, rolled to him.

"Sammy... get me... out..."

Sam frowned, leaning closer to Dean, clutching his hand tighter to make him feel his presence.

"It's okay, Dean. You're out. You're awake."

"No… Sammy…"

Dean was breathing heavily, the monitor was still screaming, and Sam knew his brother was far from okay. But he was awake, which was still a blessing, right?

Dean swallowed hard. His chest hurt so bad that he found himself wishing for oblivion to take him once again. But he couldn't go back there, he'd be trapped.

Fact was, he didn't feel like he had broken free at all, and Sam didn't seem to understand.

"Dean."

Dean's eyes widened, pain momentarily forgotten, and he shrank deeper into the pillows, hand unconsciously tightening his hold on Sam.

For his part, Sam's head spun towards the voice who had uttered his brother's name. A female voice, a _demanding_ voice. It hadn't called Dean as much as _ordered_ him to respond.

"Sammy…" Dean panted, heart pounding more fiercely in his chest, blood rushing in his ears with the sound of fear. "Sammy, get me out," he said desperately, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Get me out!"

Sam stood, putting himself protectively in front of his brother, glaring through burning eyes.

"You're not taking him."

Low. Feral. Deadly. If it had been another human standing in front of him, they would dash out of the room in an instant, running for their lives.

But it just happened to be anything but a human being that Sam was now facing.

The Gwrach-y-rhybin seemed to ignore him completely as her black eyes stared at the only thing in that room that mattered.

"Dean."

But when she said his name now, she was weeping.

TBC…


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thank you so very much to all of you who reviewed! Sorry about not answering to all of you individually (again…). I'm also sorry about making you guys wait so long for this chapter. RL is being crazy and I'm also having some trouble with my internet connection. I hope you'll decide to stick with the story anyway and that you'll enjoy this next installment.

---

PART 12

Dean didn't really know what was happening or why did the old hag decide to fix her attention upon him. What she wanted though, that much he knew. Female weeping creatures wailing out your name usually meant only one thing.

His thoughts went fleetingly to Banshees, and although this wasn't exactly how he'd expect a Banshee to look, there was no other creature to his knowledge that would act like this.

A grimace of annoyance crossed his face. Just his luck, to have stumbled upon probably the only exemplar of an Irish spirit of death to be found in the whole U.S. territory.

Yet, something was off. Banshees don't bring death, they merely announce it. So why did the sight of this creature stir such fear in him?

He stared at her intently, and his sweaty brow furrowed as he caught a glimpse of black when her dark teeth flashed behind the sneer her lips were hinting at. His already racing heart skipped another beat. 

Whatever it was, that thing wasn't a Banshee.

Dean swallowed. Hard. His throat constricted, making him choke on his own saliva, coughing painfully, feeling his chest throb unmercifully. The cry of pain never made it past his lips, but his need to keep up a façade didn't have anything to do with it: he simply didn't have enough breath to set it free.

The creature stepped forward, and Dean looked down at his suddenly trembling hands, horrified by his own weakness as his body was assaulted by tremors.

"Sam," he wheezed, trying to push past the dread and the blinding pain.

_"God, let me pass out,"_ he pleaded inwardly, but it seemed like God once again wasn't listening as the hurt only intensified, his heart struggling to keep up with the crazy rhythm.

Sam didn't turn. He kept on standing between Dean and the creature, not moving an inch, and Dean felt a surge of pride.

"It's okay, Dean. She's not getting you."  
Sam's voice was so strong, Dean almost believed him.

Almost. It was still there, in front of him, as tall and proud as his brother, and Dean knew he wouldn't be safe until it was shattered.

"Sammy… get me… out…"

"It's all right, Dean. It's gonna be okay. Just hang on a little while longer."

Dean didn't have the strength to fulfill his brother's request. He licked his dry lips and took as deep a breath as he could, mustering up the last remains of his energy that he knew soon would be spent.

"Sam, I can't reach you!" he finally cried.

Collapsing back against the pillows, exhausted by the brief outburst, Dean watched, gasping, as the horror flooded his brother's features when Sam turned and finally saw.

---

Sam felt his insides grow cold as a surge of panic came to assault him at the sight.  
It hadn't been there before. He'd been holding Dean's hand when his brother woke up, touching him, _reaching out_ to him. Where the hell had it come from?

"Dean," Sam whispered fearfully, completely turning his back to the still weeping creature and stepping towards his brother.

He walked slowly. Maybe, if it was slowly enough, by the time he got there, it would have disappeared.

It didn't, and Sam's stomach dropped lower when his hands were pressed once more against the glass wall. 

Dean looked up at him with such pain in his eyes that Sam's breath caught in his throat.

"Oh my God…" Sam breathed. "Dean, please, fight this thing!" he cried then, slamming his palms against the glass in frustration.

"Dean."

Sam spun back around at the call and watched as the Gwrach-y-rhybin advanced some more, tears streaming incessantly down her face.  
He swallowed, and stood his ground more firmly, eyes glaring daggers at the creature.

"Let him go," he demanded, voice dangerously low and even. "Smash this fucking window!" he yelled, taking a furious step forward.

Once again, the Gwrach-y-rhybin paid no mind to him, as if to her he didn't exist at all.

"Dean," she wept, stepping forward.

There was a strangled moan behind him, and Sam turned again. He froze. 

Dean had gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut against the pain, both fists clenching the sheets as tight as he could, his whole body rigid and pressed back into the mattress, as near as he could get to arching his back.

"Dean!" Sam cried, slamming his punches against the glass with all the strength he was capable of. It didn't crack.

He watched as Dean tried to ride out the sudden wave of agony, breath coming in short ragged pants.

"S-Sam…" the older Winchester managed to gasp out.  
It was nothing more than a strangled groan itself, but Sam heard it like the loudest of shouts. Panic and rage all swept over him, propelling him into another vicious attack at the barrier that kept him from his brother's side.

"Dean!" he screamed, trying desperately to let his voice reach out to Dean in the way his hands couldn't. "Dean, you gotta hold on!"

He watched as the plea in his words sank in and Dean fought, clenching his jaws tighter as he tried to overcome the pain for Sam's sake.  
He watched Dean swallow hard, saw just how much effort that required, and felt despair engulf him completely.

And even though Dean didn't say a word, Sam read the final apology in his eyes.

"No! Dean!"

"Dean," the Gwrach-y-rhybin sobbed again, taking another step forward.

Dean moaned a little louder and his body tensed further.

Sam turned wide, lost hazel eyes to the creature, back to his brother and then back on the woman over and over again. He was at a complete loss, and on the verge of throwing up from fear.

"Dean."   
Another step. Dean didn't moan this time, he barely had enough strength left for his body to react to the pain in any way at all. 

Something snapped in Sam, and he jumped into action, doing the only thing he could think of.

---

Davis Alban froze at the sight of the hated creature advancing upon the two young men. But he didn't have the time to wonder how had he missed her arrival, because next thing he knew, he was watching, horrified, as Sam launched himself at the Gwrach-y-rhybin in a desperate attempt to keep her away from his brother.

"Sam! No!"  
The old man leapt forward to grab the boy and hold him back, but he was too late.

Sam collided hard with the creature, but it was like bouncing off a wall, and he found himself thrown backwards at the impact, barely managing to catch himself before he could crash into something.

"You alright, boy?" Mr. Alban asked anxiously as he rushed to the young man's side.

Sam looked up at him, and Davis watched as his expression changed from shocked to something he couldn't quite define. Enlightening realization, maybe?

"She's corporeal!" Sam cried, grabbing his arm.

Mr. Alban stared uncomprehendingly.  
"Uh?"

"She's corporeal!" Sam repeated. "That means she can be killed!"

Davis frowned.   
"Sam, she… um… she's a spirit. She's not _corporeal_." 

"But I _bounced_ off her! If she was a spirit, I would've just passed through."

"Yeah, that's something I'm still trying to find an explanation for," the old man said, half to himself.

Sam's face fell.  
"You mean… she's not…?"

"No, Sam," he said gently. "I'm sorry."

They watched as the Gwrach-y-rhybin advanced unrelenting towards Dean.

Davis was ready this time, and he quickly grabbed Sam by the shoulders as the boy lurched forwards.

"No! Let me go!" the young man cried, immediately starting to struggle.

"You can't do anything," Mr. Alban said, softly but firmly.

"Let me go! Dean! DEAN!"

Every anguished cry tearing from Sam's throat, every tensing of muscles, every vain yanking of his body felt like a knife to Davis' chest, and he closed his eyes briefly, sending a quick prayer for forgiveness that he knew wouldn't be granted.

When his eyelids lifted again, he responded with a burning glare to the sneer the Gwrach-y-rhybin threw in his direction before turning back to her prey and taking the final steps towards Sam's brother.

---

Sam was vaguely aware of the tears streaming down his face, leaving a burning trail on his skin.

Somewhere along the line he had stopped struggling against the iron grip that held him and had slumped into the old man's arms, his body now standing still and unresponsive, as if frozen in space.

His heart thumped against his chest. It hurt, and Sam idly wondered if that pain was somewhat like the one that had been plaguing Dean over the past few days.

He didn't have enough breath left to utter his brother's name as he watched the Gwrach-y-rhybin closing the distance that separated her from Dean.

Or rather, trying to close it. The creature placed a wrinkled hand over the wall. She drew one of her overlong arms back and brought a fist testily to the glass.

It thumped against it, and that's when Sam realized the wall was there for her as much as for him, and she couldn't get past.

Apparently the Gwrach-y-rhybin realized it, too, because she let out a shriek of rage and turned furious crimson eyes to Mr. Alban. She launched herself at them, and Sam was suddenly thrown sideways as the old man pushed him out of the way.

He watched in horror as the creature and the man came in contact. 

"No!" he cried.

His eyes widened at what happened next.  
The Gwrach-y-rhybin passed right through the old man's body, emerging behind him, and disappeared with a last shriek. 

"What the hell…" Sam muttered, staring in disbelief at a seemingly equally shocked Davis Alban.

The stunned silence made Sam suddenly realize that the screaming of the monitor had stopped, and he rushed back to the glass wall, his gratitude towards it already forgotten as it once more prevented him to be where he belonged.

He found green slits looking up at him, and he swallowed, Adam apple working furiously to bring some moisture back to his dry mouth.

Dean kept on staring at him for what felt at first like an eternity and later on like an entirely too short time as Sam was forced to watch his brother's eyes closing again. 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to close his own eyes and look away.

He wanted to wake up and find that the whole thing had been a nightmare and that he was in fact sitting in the Impala next to his brother.

He wanted to bitch about Black Sabbath blazing out of the speakers. He wanted Dean to jump head first into the banter and driving him crazy with his wiseass remarks.  
He wanted his brother to smirk at him and offering death threats should he ever get to so much as scratch his car.  
He wanted Dean to smack him playfully across the head. He wanted to pretend to grumble and scowl about being called "Sammy" all the time.

He wanted it back. All of it.

"DEAN!"

The scream erupted from his chest like a shot out of a gun barrel. Pain exploded in his head, and next thing he knew, Sam was spiraling into darkness. 

---

"Sam!" Davis cried, catching the boy before he could hit the floor hard. 

Nathan Jackson rushed up to help him. He quickly checked the young man's pulse and respiration.

"He's okay, he's just unconscious. I guess the pressure finally got the best of him," the dark-skinned man spoke sadly.

Mr. Alban glared up at him as he cradled Sam in his lap.  
"Well, don't just stay there looking at him like that. Check on his brother!"

Dr. Jackson frowned as he got up to walk to the bed. He quickly examined Dean's vitals and turned back to look at the old man questioningly.   
"His condition hasn't changed. Has something happened?" 

Mr. Alban blinked.  
"Excuse me?!" he said in disbelief. "The damn heart monitor has been shrieking for God knows how long!"

The doctor's frown only deepened.  
"We didn't hear anything."

"Well, maybe you were off having a coffee and flirting with some nurses. I still can't believe none bothered to check up on the boy!" Davis snapped. "What if I hadn't come to drag your ass in here?!"

"Davis, calm down," Dr. Jackson said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I don't know what you've heard. You must have been mistaken."

"Look, Nathan, I might be old, but I'm not dumb, yet," Mr. Alban glared from where he was still crouched on the floor, supporting Sam's unconscious form.

Dr. Jackson sighed and gave the machine a quick check for good measure.  
"Davis, there's been no change here." He looked back at the old man. "This monitor never went off."

TBC…


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Thanks a bunch to all my reviewers! I'm sorry about it taking me so long to update, but I don't have internet access in Rome, where I study. I'm back home for the holidays now, so I'll try to post as many chapters as I can, there's only a couple more to go anyway. Thanks for sticking with me and have a great Christmas all of you!

---

PART 13 

Sam came to with a small gasp of fear.

"Dean!"

He blinked, slowly turning his head from side to side to look around. Everything was dark and silent. It felt like nothing, and Sam's stomach clenched as panic began to rise.

He forced himself to calm down, knowing that no matter how frightening, this was only a dream.

Said knowledge faltered when he rolled to one side and gingerly climbed to his feet. They thumped over something solid, like a floor that was just out of eyeshot, and it felt… _real_. As real as they come.

Terror threatened to take him over, when something glistened in the dark, and his eyes caught sight of a large mirror not far from him.

He started to walk up to it; slowly, warily, like he would approach one of the creatures he used to hunt. 

Until the image in the mirror changed, and it wasn't reflecting darkness anymore.

"Dean!"

The cry left his mouth before he could even register it being born, and next thing he knew, his hands were once more pressed helplessly against a glass surface.

He only pounded over it twice though, not really surprised when he didn't get any result.

So he stared, the fierce pain so familiar by now that it only brought numbness to his body, as his brother lay in the hospital bed, the machines beeping steadily, wires all around his unmoving form, his cheeks paler than Sam had ever saw them, except for the dark circles under his eyes. 

"Dean… Dean. Dean Dean Dean Dean…"  
The name escaped his lips over and over, like a whispered mantra that Sam knew would just go unanswered.

The image in the mirror faded, and Sam was left staring at his own pale, devastated features.

His reflection moved his head, and he jumped back. He moved his hand, but his reflection didn't match his gesture, merely staring at him through cold hazel eyes.

Sam swallowed, the whole predicament triggering an awful deja-vu of what had happened when he and Dean had faced Bloody Mary, back in Toledo.

"Do you know why you're behind this glass instead of sitting at your brother's bedside?" his reflection suddenly spoke, eyes no longer bleeding and voice free of the furious rage that had marred it that time, but it still held that same hint of cruelty.

"Because you can't do anything," the Sam in the mirror went on when he didn't answer its question. "This," it embraced the whole glass surface, "this here, this mirror. This is your helplessness."

Still, Sam didn't speak, too crushed by his own emotions and memories to say anything.

"You're not at Dean's bedside because even if you were, it wouldn't change a thing." His reflection paused cruelly. "Time's up."

"No, it's not," Sam replied reflexively, steel determination bringing the voice back to his throat. "And if I have any say in the matter, it won't ever be."

"But you _don't_ have a say in the matter, do you?" his reflection retorted tauntingly. "Let me ask you a question. Can you deal with loss?"

Sam's gaze hardened.   
"I've been dealing with loss my whole life," he said coldly.

His reflection smiled a smile that sent shivers all down Sam's spine.

"Oh, I don't mean pushing it all back down until the pain turns into anger like you usually do. I mean _really_ deal with loss. Can you do that?"

Sam didn't answer this time, feeling the words sink in and cut deep.

"Can you deal with this particular loss?"

Sam thought of Dean; of his too pale features, of how exhausted he looked even as he slept, of how slack his lips were while they should be forming the smirk Sam knew so well.

He shook his head in response.  
"No, I can't."

His reflection sneered.  
"Thought so." 

It disappeared with the widening of its grin, and Sam was left alone in front of the now once more dark mirror. He leaned both his palms and his forehead against the cool glass, wishing that he could somehow wake up from this nightmare in the nightmare and go back to Dean's side, letting him know that he wasn't alone.

---

Dean was starting to truly hate that wall. True, it had somehow stopped that thing from going after him, for which he was grateful beyond measure, but it was still trapping him, keeping him away from Sam and Sam away from him.

Sam, who sometime during his latest ordeal had disappeared, leaving him to wake up to an empty bedside.  
Sam, whose absence could only mean two things: either more research, or trouble. Possibly both.

Dean looked up at the ticking clock on the far wall of the room. 8pm. No libraries were open at that hour, which ruled out the research option.

_"Come on, Sammy,"_ Dean thought fervently, throwing yet another anxious glance at the door. _"I'm gettin' worried here, little brother."_

"Dean!"

Dean startled, the monitor giving a longer, slightly shriller beep as his damaged heart jumped in his throat. It settled back down almost instantly, which gave Dean no reason to worry about medical staff rushing into the room and the chance to focus on Sam's distraught voice.

"Dean. Dean…"

"Sam?" Dean called. "Sammy, where are you?"

"Dean Dean Dean…"

"Sam!" Dean yelled as loud as his strength would allow.

"Dean Dean Dean Dean…"  
The litany of his name continued uninterrupted. 

"Sam! Dammit!" Dean cursed his weakness when he tried to get up and failed miserably, pain shooting up in his chest as soon as he dared trying to put some weight on his elbows.

"No, it's not. And if I have any say in the matter, it won't ever be." 

Dean frowned as Sam's voice came to him again, from somewhere that sounded close enough and yet just out of eyeshot. 

"I've been dealing with loss my whole life."

They were snippets of a conversation, and judging by how cold and spiteful Sam's voice had sounded now, Dean figured whoever it was that he was talking to, his brother didn't like the person that much.

He wondered why it was that he could hear Sam's voice so clearly and absolutely nothing of what the other person was saying. Maybe Sam was on the phone? But with whom? Their father?

_"I've been dealing with loss my whole life."_

No. There was no way Sam would throw _that_ into their father's face, no matter how much they had fought in the past. Especially not now, when Sam was losing a brother and John Winchester a son. Those two may be stubborn, but they were never cruel, and pain always did seem to bring them together somehow.

Dean was still trying to figure out the mysterious speaker's identity, when Sam spoke again.

"No, I can't."

He sounded broken, defeated in a way Dean had never heard him before.

He was listening to the sound of his brother, his ever resourceful, stubborn to the point of being a pain in the ass little brother, giving up for the first time.

Dean decided he'd heard enough.

He fought to drag himself up, not caring about the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against the strain and reached out a hand to give his body some shove forward.   
He was surprised when he felt his fingers go straight through the glass barrier and close around solid flesh.

---

The coolness of the glass was almost comforting as Sam still leaned against it, eyes closed. He could feel himself plummeting into despair, but he couldn't find the strength to snap out of it.

As he found himself truly empty for the first time, he idly thought of all those times in his life in which he had thought he was drained, and realized just how full of energy he still had been in truth. 

"Sammy."

The voice came out of nowhere, and Sam barely had time to snap his eyes open before a hand closed around his wrist and he was forcefully pulled through the mirror. 

---

_"Sammy."_

Sam jerked awake, eyes wide and frantic.

"Easy, boy, you're okay."

His gaze finally managed to focus on the worried features of Davis Alban, who was peering anxiously down at him.

"You had us worried, young man," the man said as he helped him sit up and handed him a glass of water.

Sam drank gratefully, looking around the small room. A single room. He looked down at his hospital clothes in disbelief.

"They had me _hospitalized_?!" he cried. 

Davis hurried to hold up his hand in a placating gesture. 

"When you didn't wake up after the first two hours, Nath- Dr. Jackson," he corrected himself, "thought it was best to keep you in observation for 24 hours. You know, out of precaution."

Sam shot him such a both thunderous and appalled look that Mr. Alban almost squirmed.

"I don't have time for _precaution_," he growled, swinging his long legs off the bed and getting up, hastily retrieving his clothes.

Davis shot out of his own chair.

"Sam, you should rest. You were out for almost six hours…"

"I gotta go back to Dean," Sam cut him off as he finished dressing up. "I need to talk to him."

Something had happened while he was unconscious. He remembered being trapped, unable to snap out of the darkness that surrounded him. Until Dean had somehow found a way to connect with him and drag him out.

He didn't know whether Dean was aware of it or not, but Sam was determined to get to the bottom of it.

"Sam."

Something in Davis' voice forced Sam to stop his frantic activity and look up. He found the old man staring at him with both sympathy and worry in his eyes. Sam's stomach clenched.

"What?" he asked, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

"You can't talk to Dean."

Sam could actually _feel_ the color drain out of his features.

"What are you talking about?" he breathed.

Mr. Alban didn't answer. He merely kept on staring at him, pity mixing with confusion.

"What happened to my brother?" Sam cried in anguish, feeling his own chest tighten.

As soon as he realized what Sam's fear was, Mr. Alban's hands flailed up in the air in a frantic attempt at reassurance.

"No, no, no. He's not dead," he said hurriedly.

Sam felt his knees almost give out in relief. 

"Then why can't I… Has he slipped back into the coma?" he ventured. _"Please don't let him have gone back there,"_ his mind prayed fervently. _"Please no."_

The old man frowned.

"Sam, what are you talking about? He never woke up."

Sam stared at him, uncomprehending.

"What… Of course he did. Right before the Gwrach-y-rhybin came."

Mr. Alban's features were once more awash with heartfelt sympathy.   
"You must have been dreaming, boy. Dean never woke up."

---

Sam stared at the unconscious features of his brother, shock quickly turning back into despair in the pit of his stomach.

"So you didn't see any of it," he said, his voice flat and detached, with just a small hint of disbelief to betray his emotions. "The glass wall, me trying to reach through, Dean in pain… Nothing?"

Mr. Alban shook his head.   
"Nothing. I've seen you standing between the Gwrach-y-rhybin and your brother and lunging at the thing. And passing out once she had gone, of course. But I saw no wall and no reaction from Dean, other than the monitor going off- "

The old man trailed off abruptly, and Sam forced his eyes away from Dean to look quizzically at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You know, that's weird…" Mr. Alban reflected.

"What's weird?" 

"When Dr. Jackson finally came into the room after I called him…"

"What?" Sam pressed urgently.

"He said there had been no change in Dean's condition. He said the monitor never went off. And that's why none came before."

Sam blinked.  
"Excuse me?"

"That's what I said, too," Mr. Alban nodded. "But he did a double check both on Dean and the machines and said that nothing had changed at all."

Sam sat lost in thought for long minutes, brow furrowed and mind working furiously.

"It's like we all did perceive reality differently," he ventured at last. He spoke slowly, thinking through everything as he tried to figure it out aloud. "And everyone of us had some more details than the others. Me, I saw Dean awake, the wall, the Gwrach-y-rhybin, and I heard the monitor. You only saw the Gwrach-y-rhybin, that part of my actions that didn't include an interaction with Dean, and you heard the monitor going off. And Dr. Jackson walked into the room and saw it as if nothing had happened."

"And Dean was in there somewhere, too, perceiving people and things his own way. And you two somehow connected through it all so that you perceived it like he was conscious," Mr. Alban echoed his train of thought. "The Gwrach-y-rhybin, too. She only seemed to be able to see me and your brother. Even when you collided with her, it was like you weren't there."

"It's like we all were on different levels of reality," Sam mused.

Their eyes met.

"You ever heard of anything like this before?" Mr. Alban asked.

Sam shook his head.  
"Never."

"What exactly happened after I passed out?" the young man asked after a while.

Mr. Alban shrugged.  
"Nothing. Your brother's condition still didn't change and Dr. Jackson was worried about you 'cause you wouldn't wake up."

"It was Dean," Sam said after some silence, looking back down at his brother.

"I'm sorry?" Mr. Alban asked curiously.

"I woke up thanks to Dean." 

Sam proceeded to tell the old man about his dreams. About the wall and the mirror and how real everything had felt. How Dean had reached out to him and pulled him back to consciousness. 

"Something's going on with you and Dean," Mr. Alban said after some pondering when Sam had finished his tale.

"You think it might have something to do with the Gwrach-y-rhybin?" Sam asked. "Maybe she's doing it to us?"

The old man shook his head.  
"No. I never heard that she was capable of anything like this. It's something else. And I'd dare say we might want to figure it out."

"Not now though."

Mr. Alban stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"If it's not connected with the Gwrach-y-rhybin, it can wait," Sam said. "Right now we need to figure out a way to destroy that thing before she comes back for Dean."

Mr. Alban nodded, and then his sharp blue eyes sparkled as he grinned the grin of the cat who's just about to eat the canary.

"I have an idea."

---

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Mr. Alban asked as he watched Sam draw an intricate pattern of symbols in and around a circle on the humid ground of the woods just outside the town.

Sam looked up at him and nodded distractedly, bringing his attention instantly back to what he was doing.

"We've used it before, Dean and I."

"I still can't believe you and your brother deal with this kind of things on a daily basis," the old man said. 

Sam shrugged, barely hearing his words, lost in thought.

He remembered the last time they had performed that ritual.

He had been seventeen. Their father had uncharacteristically decided to go soft on the angry soul haunting a small town in Kentucky, trying to find a way to have it put at rest by digging into its history.

Until the particularly vicious spirit had attacked Sam himself.

Dean had come to the rescue like a pissed off cougar, shooting the thing full of rock salt and roaring out a binding spell that Sam had no idea where was coming from at the top of his lungs.

Next thing Sam had known, his brother was furiously drawing a wide circle and a number of symbols and sending the spirit back where it belonged.

What had come next hadn't been pleasant. Their dad had yelled at Dean for performing a ritual out of nowhere without consulting anyone first. Dean had fought back that time, screaming that surely Dad had picked the wrong hunt to start caring about the human history of the things they hunted, and what if Sammy had got hurt.

And for once it had been Sam who had watched a fight ensuing, knowing that it was his fault, because he had been the one to repeatedly accuse their father of killing blindly, until John had finally caved and tried to do things another way. For once.

Dragging himself out of the memory, Sam finished drawing the last symbol and stood, looking down at his work critically.  
Five years ago, Dean had used that ritual to protect him. Now he would do the same for Dean.

"And you say this is going to trap my father's spirit? Only him?" Mr. Alban asked. 

Sam stared intently at him.  
"You can still change your mind," he offered sympathetically.

The old man shook his head with a small smile.  
"No. I've done nothing for too long."

"But it's your father."

"My father died 45 years ago, boy," Mr. Alban said pointedly. "It's the only way."

Sam knew he was right. If they wanted to stop the bargain the angry spirit of Davis' father had going on with the Gwrach-y-rhybin, there was no other way but to trap the spirit itself and let the creature finally come to collect her prize.

It had been Mr. Alban's idea, and Sam could only imagine how hard that decision had been on him.

"I just want to make sure we get the right ghost," Mr. Alban said.

"We will," Sam assured. "Your blood is to ensure that only those with the same DNA as yours answer to the call," he explained, pointing at the symbol in the middle of the circle, wet with a few drops of blood oozing from the cut Mr. Alban had purposely opened in the palm of his hand. 

"Black magic," the old man remarked.

Sam shook his head.  
"Occultism," he said. "There's a difference," he added when he saw Davis open his mouth to protest.

"So what now?" the old man asked again.

"Iubeo te! Veni!"

Sam uttered some more words, finished the invocation and grinned.  
"Now we wait."

"Um… Say, Sam," Davis began after a few minutes of silence. "If there was some other ghost in my family, would they get sucked into this, too?"

Sam's eyes immediately shot to him, narrowing in suspicion.

"There's someone else?"  
He truly hoped that there wasn't, because that would _really_ complicate things, and how much more complicated were things bound to get before he could finally have his brother back?

Mr. Alban heaved a deep sigh, crushing Sam's hope and fuelling his anger with that only small sound.  
"Well…"

But before the old man could get any further, temperature dropped and angry gusts of winds came to sweep the trees.

"It's too late to tell me now!" Sam cried over the screaming of leaves. "He's here!"

What happened next, Sam knew he would never forget. Because however had he imagined the ritual to unfold, this certainly wasn't it.

TBC…

---

Further A/N: The Latin words Sam utters mean, "I command thee! Come!". Or so I hope… I suck at Latin. So if any of you has any clear idea of how that would be translated, please let me know. Otherwise, just excuse my poor Latin skills.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Yes, I know, it took me ages to update. So sorry! Thank you to all of you who have reviewed, and I hope that despite my negligence, you're still with me on this. Only two more chapters to go!

---

PART 14 

"BP dropping!"

"Shit…"

"He's not breathing. Start intubation. And somebody call his brother!"

"We've been trying to get a hold of him, we keep getting his voicemail."

"Have you left a message?"

"Not yet."

"What the hell are you waiting for, a call of God?! Leave the damn message!"

"Yes, sir."

"And keep trying!"

"Yes, sir."

Dr. Jackson sent another murderous glare in the general direction of the retreating nurse for good measure before bringing his undivided attention back to his patient.

Another monitor joined the collective screaming of machines.

"We lost the pulse!" a nurse cried.

"Fuck," the medic cursed quietly. "Defibrillator! Hurry! Come on, Dean," he softly encouraged the young man. "Hang on just a little while longer. Your brother needs to say goodbye."

---

The ritual couldn't fail. It wasn't supposed to fail. And fail it did not. In fact, it worked only too well.

And so it was that Sam Winchester currently found himself with a trapped pissed off ghost and a bewildered, equally trapped Davis Alban, who was staring at him wide-eyed from the middle of the binding confines of the circle.

Sam watched as the symbols he had drawn did their slow but steady job, canalizing the ectoplasmatic energy until the spirit assumed a visible form.

Unlike his son, the late Mr. Alban had brown eyes, but they were just as intense as Davis' as they stared both incredulously and murderously at the other man.

"You did this to me…" the ghost said slowly. "How could you? You ungrateful bastard!"

The spirit tried to lunge at Davis, but the binding force of the symbols kept him firm in place, unable to move anything but his head.

Davis was staring at his father with pain clearly written on his old features, and Sam felt bad for him as the word left his mouth in a broken murmur.

"Dad…"

It was also kind of awkward to watch, because when Mr. Alban had taken his own life, he had been in his late forties, whereas Davis was presently in his seventies. It wasn't every day you got to hear a seventy-something year old addressing a forty-something year old with such an appellation.

"Why did you do it?!" the spirit demanded furiously.

There was a glint of steel in Davis' eyes as he answered.

"You know why. It's time to put a stop to this."

Meanwhile, Sam was walking all around the large circle, examining every single drawing carefully, his fingers to his lower lip as he tried to figure out exactly what had happened.

"Sam?" Davis questioned.

"I don't understand…" the younger Winchester muttered half to himself. "How did _you_ end up in there?"

Davis gave an uncomfortable clear of his throat.

"Well, remember my question from earlier?"

Sam froze on the spot and looked up at him so sharply that his neck almost cracked.

"_You_ are the other ghost in your family?!"

Davis nodded, and the look on his face was almost apologetic.

Saying that Sam was appalled would be an understatement. He was utterly and totally shocked. How was it even possible? Spirits are not visible to anyone, and most of all, they're not _tangible_. He had seen Davis do all sort of things, touch people and objects, the man drove a _car_ to the hospital, for Christ's sake!

"It's… uh… it's kind of complicated," Davis began to say.

Before he had the chance to go any further with the story though, a feeble wailing was heard in the distance.

Sam tensed, and Davis' father's spirit grew even more furious.

"Let me out!"

Davis shook his head.

"I don't think so."

The other spirit's eyes hardened.

"Son, that's an order."

Sam felt an uncomfortable sense of deja-vu at that.

The father's head snapped towards the hunter.

"Let me out," he growled.

Sam stared back, lifting his chin up a fraction in angry defiance.

"No."

"This is not going to save your brother, kid. He's gonna die, and you can't do anything about it."

Anger flared up instantly in Sam's chest.

"_I know what happened to your girlfriend. She died screaming. Even now she's burning."_

"_Sam!" _

…

"_Dean… It knew, about Jessica."_

"_Sam, these things… they read minds. They lie, okay? That's all that was." _

Another creature had tried this trick on him once. But it had been a lie back then, and Dean had been quick in silencing the son of a bitch.

This was different. This was no demon. This was no lie. And Dean wasn't there.

---

Somewhere, somehow, Sam managed to muster up enough strength to push his bubbling emotions aside and not play the spirit's game. He stood, apparently unfazed by the cruel words, and watched as the older ghost cursed and pleaded and raged.

"Son, you let me out, and you let me out _now_."

Again, Davis was just as firm as Sam.

"Payback time, Dad. All those lives you've traded for your soul… Did you really think you could go unpunished much longer?"

"But why does it have to be you? Why now?"

Something flashed over Davis' feature, and that was when Sam knew that no matter what, he loved and would always love his father. Hatred. It made Sam shiver, to see such feral rage on a son's face towards his own father, and he knew that not even in the most heated of fights would his features ever sport such an expression, nor his eyes would burn that coldly when looking at John Winchester.

"You took Grace," Davis said. "You will take Tom if I don't stop you. You took _me_." His eyes flared up. "You were already bargaining when I died, didn't you?"

The other ghost's features hardened.

"You know our family's cursed. I don't have anything to do with your death."

"You could have _stopped_ it!" Davis cried in fury. "You could have at least tried!"

"I didn't know how!" the eldest Mr. Alban cried back. "Don't you think I would have, if I only could? Do you think I enjoyed watching you die?"

Davis snorted.

"Spare me, Dad. You could've prevented this curse to affect anyone but those wearing our name, sharing our blood. You brought this on everyone else, and it's time for it to stop."

"Why? What do you care? You're already dead!"

Davis looked at him in disbelief.

"You took my wife! Some of my friends, too!"

A heavy silence followed, in which a look Sam couldn't define crossed the eldest Alban's features. For a fleeting moment, the young hunter almost thought it was guilt.

But then the spirit spoke again, and the words that left his mouth weren't of apology, just an angry, accusing, half pleading,

"Why now?"

Davis grinned a grin of hate and half remembered love that, once again, Sam thought had no place of spreading over a son's lips while smiling at his father.

"_You two _do_ love each other, you just let other things get in the way, and it pisses me off." _

Dean had never actually spoken those words, but Sam had heard them anyway, in every single one of those silences his brother would slip into following one of the many fights between Sam and their father, in every "Stop it!" he would cry, in every glare he would throw at them for hours, sometimes even days, afterwards.

But he had never realized it fully, what Dean really meant.

"_I get it now, Dean," _Sam thought as he watched the two spirits. /i _"I do love Dad. And he does love me." /i _

Sam just hoped Dean would hold on long enough for him to tell him.

---

Dr. Jackson walked dejectedly up to reception, giving an enquiring stare at the nurse who was just then hanging up the phone.

"You found him, yet?"

The woman shook her head.

"No," she said apologetically. "I left another message."

The dark-skinned man nodded wordlessly, watching as she picked up other patients' files and headed out on her tour.

Alone now, he took a moment to allow his composure to slip a little, leaning heavily on the desk, shoulders slumped in defeat.

He was a medic, and it was every day that he got to see such things as this happen, but still it didn't make it any easier to watch, especially when the life that got lost was a young one; especially when there was so much pain and love involved.

And right now, Nathan Jackson couldn't get the image of Sam Evans' eyes out of his mind.

---

"_Why now?"_ was apparently a question meant to be left unanswered, because the keening came before any other word could be spoken.

Sam clutched the journal tighter, scanning the words quickly, making sure that it was just the right page, just the right thing to do.

The eldest Alban opened his mouth wide. Whether it was for a scream or a begging, Sam would never know, because then she was there, overlong arms outstretched towards the spirits inside the circle, her weeping eyes not matched by the grin that spread her lips, revealing a set of black teeth.

"Robert!" she sobbed. "Oh Robert! My Robert!"

The older spirit's features flooded with horror.

"No!" he cried, his terror so great that, even though he didn't move an inch, Sam had the feeling he was taking a few steps back anyway. "You stay away from me! We have a deal!"

Sam felt the familiar wave of rage mounting up in his chest, and he had to swallow it down in order to focus. It tasted like bile in his throat.

"Sam!" Davis called sharply. "Do it now!"

Sam snapped out of his momentary trance and went back to leaf frantically through his father's journal.

"Not yet," he said urgently. "I have to find a way to get you out of there first."

"We don't have time for that. Just do it!"

"I can't: it'll destroy you, too," Sam said.

"I don't care."

Sam froze and looked up at the old man's spirit, dumbstruck.

"What?"

Davis gave him a gentle smile.

"It's all right, Sam. I don't mind going out this way."

"But…"

"It's okay," Davis said again.

Sam shook his head a few times, fervently.

"No. Nonono. No. I can't do it."

"You know there is no other way."

Sam knew. That did not mean he liked it though. It had been Davis' idea. If Robert's spirit got destroyed while the Gwrach-y-rhybin tried to get his soul, the pact would be broken, and the other people would be safe: she wouldn't have anymore business in going after anyone who wasn't part of the Albans clan. It wouldn't break the curse, but it would be something. Sam secretly planned on figuring out a way to save the family, as well, later on. After Dean had woken up.

The younger Winchester stared stricken at the old man. If he was to break the circle now, both spirits would get away. Yes, they could set up the ritual again, but that would take time, which they didn't have.

"It's either me or your brother, Sam," Davis said gently. "And I'm already dead."

Sam did not move for several moments, then he nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

Davis smiled again.

"I'm not."

"NO!"

She had reached her prey, and Sam looked down at his father's handwriting and began to read.

"Stay away!"

"Robert! My Robert! Oh my Robert!"

"STAY AWAY!"

"Goodbye, Sam."

There was an explosion of light, and the last thing Sam saw before his consciousness got wrenched away was Davis Alban's smiling face.

TBC…


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews. I know I say this every chapter, but your support to this story really means a lot to me, and again, I'm sorry it always takes me so long to update. Here we are though. Only one more chapter to go after this. We're almost done, and I hope you're still with me and you'll enjoy this part. Again, thank you!

---

Part 15 

"Sam? Kid, wake up. Sam!"

It took a while for Sam to register the voice intruding into the blissful realms of unconsciousness, or the light slapping of urgent fingers against his cheek.

Eventually he stirred, eyes fluttering open, and he blinked owlishly up at the figure peering apprehensively down at him before he could finally make out the worried features of Tom Alban.

"Sam? Are you all right?" the man asked anxiously as he helped him to sit up.

Sam didn't answer, not right away, instead looking around dazedly for a while.

There was no sign of the spirits, and the Gwrach-y-rhybin seemed to have vanished, as well.

In the darkening evening, the younger Winchester could make out the circle still drawn in the humid ground. The symbols had faded, having completed their task once the ritual was done.

"Sam?" Tom prompted.

Sam snapped out of his stupor, fixing his eyes back upon the man.

"I'm okay," he reassured. "Your father?" he asked softly after a moment.

Tom gave him a small smile.

"He's gone."

A wave of sadness washed over Sam.

"I'm sorry."

Tom shook his head, his smile widening, becoming less bitter.

"Don't be. He had a good death."

Sam nodded numbly. No matter how much Davis had wanted to go, it still didn't seem fair, for him to pay for his father's sordid mistakes.

"My Dad's gone, my granddad's gone, the Gwrach-y-rhybin's gone. For now." Tom smiled widely down at him as he extended a hand to drag him up to his feet. "I don't know what you did, but whatever it was, you did one hell of a job." His hand didn't leave Sam's, giving it a firm shake instead. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

Sam nodded, finding himself smiling back, even if a little tremulously.

"I gotta go back to my brother."

The deal was broken, which meant people who didn't wear the Albans' name were safe now.

There were many things that still needed explaining, such as why it was that Davis Alban had appeared almost more alive than Sam himself, what happened with Dean and that glass wall, and what it was with the "different layers of reality" thing. He also needed to figure out a way to break the curse.

But all of that could wait. The deal as broken, and Dean would wake up soon. Maybe he already had, and Sam needed to be there.

A short while later, when the phone rang as he drove back to the hospital, Sam didn't jump at the sound and his stomach didn't close up for the first time in days. Because he knew that this time, he would be on the receiving end of some good news.

---

Maybe he was wrong. No matter what he tried to tell himself, that it was safe now, that _Dean_ was safe now, Sam couldn't shake off that feeling.

Because when his phone had rung five minutes ago and Dr. Jackson had all but begged him to hurry back to the hospital, the man hadn't really sounded as Sam thought a medic whose patient had just made a miraculous recovery should do.

And when he hung up and saw all the missed calls from the hospital, the younger Winchester felt his blood run cold.

"_No."_ He took a deep breath. _"No." _

Dean always said not to jump the gun too quickly, and for once, Sam intended to listen.

---

"_I'm sorry."_

Sam stared at his brother. His pale, motionless, unable-to-breathe-on-his-own brother. A doctor's words were once again ringing in his ears, ominous as not even the cry of the Gwrach-y-rhybin had been.

By now, Sam was fearing doctors like little kids do, and he wondered if maybe children were more afraid of the words than of the person itself, just like he was.

The thread of hope he had been hanging on to when he walked back into the hospital had been unmercifully cut off by a few chosen information delivered with a sympathetic voice and a compassionate face.

Sam had long ago abandoned the illusion of living in a nightmare. Because nightmares, as awful as they may be, include waking up, while there was no way out of this crushing reality.

Sam reached out, his palm on the mattress, inches from Dean's fingers.

"She's gone, you know?" he spoke softly, hushed, reassuring tones that threatened to come sounding like despair between one breath and the next. "You're safe now."

Sam watched as Dean didn't stir and time didn't stop, the world keeping on turning even though his own universe was crashing down.

His fingers found Dean's hand now, taking it in his own.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I tried so hard to save you. I'm sorry I wasn't enough."

Sam felt the tears sliding down his cheeks. He didn't blink them away.

He had shed tears before, quite a few times in his life. After Jessica, he had come to know tears so well that at some point he could give each salty drop a name as they fell in the dead of the night, Dean leaving his brother his dignity, pretending not to hear unless Sam started to sob, and yet managing to make it feel like he was always there.

This was new to Sam though, this soundless, hopeless, empty crying. He had cried for Jessica after her death; he still did. But Dean… Dean wasn't dead, yet, and crying for him now felt like giving up.

"Dean."

The word echoed off the room like a shot, horribly amplified by the crushing silence, and Sam felt the fear rage more savagely, eating him up inside, and he idly wondered whether he'd manage to survive this.

"Can you hear me?"

Sam knew his brother couldn't.

"Can you hear me?"

He reached out with his other hand, placing it gently on Dean's pale cheek.

"Please, Dean."

Unsurprisingly, his plea went unanswered.

---

John closed the book and heaved a tired sigh. Welsh was quickly leading him down the path of the cross-eyed. He glanced dejectedly at the pile of books and documents laying quietly to one side of the table, their uncooperative silence seeming to mock him.

Nothing. He had read them all, time and time again, but the pages had remained sterile of useful information. He didn't know how to help his boys.

"_It's okay, Dad."_

John heard Dean's youthful voice in his ear, could almost feel his little hand on his shoulder, reaching out to him from the memories of a burned childhood, green eyes sharp and glistening with a reassuring, determined glitter that should never belong to the eyes of a child.

And suddenly the books were flying off the table, pages flapping wildly, as John's arm swept over them, a scream of rage and pain tearing out of his throat.

"_It's okay, Dad." _

Tears streamed down John's face as he let himself fall heavily onto the couch, hands covering his face as he wished he could now do what he felt he had never done and return Dean's favor, if only partially: put a hand to his son's shoulder, look him in the eye and say, "It's okay, Dean". And meaning it.

---

_Twelve-year-old Sam Winchester watched, mesmerized by the fire and blood, nauseated by the smell of burning flesh, too horrified to keep on looking and yet too terrified to tear his gaze away as the dying creature's screams tore at his ears. _

"_Don't look, Sammy!" _

_And suddenly Dean was there, one strong arm wrapping securely around him, pressing him close, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face into his brother's chest and wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. _

_His nostrils were now assaulted by the smell of sweat and gunpowder, his ears invaded by the sound of Dean's thumping heart and reassuring voice, and Sam clung to them, pretending that the latest monster wasn't writhing in agony a few feet behind him. _

"_It's okay, buddy," Dean's voice said soothingly somewhere near him, his big brother's chest rumbling with it, and not for the first time Sam blessed the deep tone that had crept into Dean's voice as it changed towards adulthood. "I got you. Don't look, Sammy. Don't look." _

_Sam didn't. He held onto Dean until the body was ashes and the hunt was over. _

_And later on he watched as their father yelled at Dean and Dean growled back, their tones strained and hushed, both careful not to wake Sam, supposedly asleep in the other room. _

"'_Don't look'?! What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" John hissed angrily, and Sam really couldn't see what his father was so pissed about. _

_Apparently Dean did though, because his eyes didn't show any trace of confusion, and his voice was an equally angry whisper as he hissed back, _

"_The kid was terrified, Dad." _

"_He's gotta get used to it," John replied harshly. "You know it as well as I do. He's gonna be a hunter one day. You can't let him close his eyes on such things." _

"_He's twelve years old!" _

"_You had already seen lots of gorier things at twelve." _

"_He doesn't have to! Sam can wait a bit longer." _

_John spun around so suddenly that Sam himself almost recoiled. Dean didn't move an inch, didn't even blink. _

"_The longer he waits, the less experienced he is, the easier it's gonna be for one of those things to kill him one day," John said sternly, voice and eyes of steel. _

"_I was just trying to protect him!" _

"_You _can't_ protect him, Dean! Not from this!"_

_Sam watched as his brother froze and the color drained a little from his face, his eyes widening slightly and his body wincing on instinct. He looked as if he had just gotten gut-punched. _

_Their father didn't look any better, because as soon as the words left his mouth, he blanched himself and took a tentative step forward, hesitantly reaching out to Dean. _

_But the damage was done, and Dean's whole body tensed, green eyes glittering, such a furious expression taking up his features that Sam had to blink and pinch himself to assure himself that this wasn't a dream and Dean was really standing there, glaring holes into their father. _

"_Watch me," his brother snarled fiercely, and before John had the chance to say anything else, he was out of the door. _

_Sam scrambled back under the covers, knowing that Dean would come back in soon and head straight to bed, and he never saw his father fall heavily down onto a chair and take his head between his hands. _

---

Sam blinked the memory away, staring at the clock on the wall that coldly informed him that, at 4.35AM, the night was almost gone, and Dean with it.

"I remember, you know," Sam spoke softly, terrified of those ticking hands, some subconscious thought somewhere in his mind telling him that as long as he kept talking, Dean wouldn't dare leaving, and the steady beeping of the monitors wouldn't turn into a wild screech announcing that his brother wasn't there to hear him anymore. "And I heard everything that night, how you stood up to Dad, how you swore to protect me from the hunt." A small smile tugged at his lips. "And you did, Dean. You may feel like you didn't, but you did. You managed to keep me away from it in a way, detached enough that at one point I could decide to let it go and try out for a normal life. And… and it's not your fault it didn't work," his voice broke, a lump forming in his throat as Jessica's eyes flashed before him. He swept one arm angrily over his face, wiping the tears away. "You can't leave me, dammit!" he choked furiously, all but jumping up to his feet. "You were always there, Dean. _Always_. You've been mothering me my whole life. Even when I didn't need protection, you were there, breathing down my neck." Sam clenched his jaw in desperate frustration. "And now… now that I need you to protect me from this, you give up?! What sorry excuse of an older brother are you?!"

He felt bile rise up in his throat even as he uttered the words. His blood boiled with rage. He was angry. Angry at life, angry at death. But not at Dean. Never at Dean. Not now.

He watched as the words didn't get any reaction from his unconscious brother.

"_Oh God. Please don't let him have heard." _

Because if Dean had heard, he may choose to stay away.

Ignoring the absurdity of the thought, Sam sat back down beside the bed and took Dean's hand in his.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I swear," he said, sounding painfully small and young even to his own ears. "You're the best big brother ever." A small chuckle escaped his throat then. "Remember how I used to say that all the time when we were kids? I'd tell anyone who would listen, and you would blush and mutter something to make me shut up, but I could see you were bursting with pride. And you had every reason to, because you truly _are_ the best big brother I could ever ask for. But what I said still stands, Dean." His soft voice turned into a broken whisper. "I need you to protect me from this. I can't take it anymore. I can't lose anymore people. I can't lose _you_."

"_Don't look, Sammy."_

But Sam did this time, and he wished he didn't have to. He wished he didn't have to watch as his brother drew his last breaths on a hospital bed in a nameless town. He wished Dean would cover his eyes with one hand and squeeze his shoulder with the other, saying, "Don't look, Sammy", and "Everything's going to be all right", and most of all, "I got you".

"_Don't look, Sammy." _

Sam did. And this sight was worse than fire, worse than blood, this silence was worse than screams.

"_Don't look, Sammy." _

Sam did, the lack of flames feeling oddly surreal. Fire seemed to be a constant when it came to death, but it wasn't fire what was consuming Dean now, and Sam wondered what color the ashes a non-burning body leaves behind were going to be.

When the monitor's scream came, his eyes didn't have anymore tears left.

---

When Dean opened his eyes, he was surprised to have his vision invaded by white light. Apparently, death wasn't that dark a place after all, and he wondered if, once the light had faded away, his mother would be there to smile at him, waiting for him with outstretched arms.

She wasn't. Arms reached for him, but they were rough and frantic and they surely didn't belong to Mary Winchester. Shadows loomed over him, and he found himself unable to breathe, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Dean thought it wasn't fair, that a man should be struggling for breath even in death.

Then a sharp pain came to scratch his throat raw, and he was left coughing and gasping, tears streaming down his face. Before he knew it, the shadows were coming into focus as doctors and nurses and he was realizing that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't dead, yet.

"Dean, easy, easy. You're okay. You're all right now."

He was sure Sam was lying, because he sounded like he was on the verge of tears, if not already crying, and who would tell their brother he was okay while sobbing their heart out? Dean knew that if_ he_ was to tell Sam he was okay, he would say it with a smile.

It took him a while to finally manage to focus on what it was that he was seeing, and when his eyes came to rest on Sam, sitting on a chair next to his bed, he found that sure enough, tears were streaming down his brother's cheeks.

"Dyin'?" he slurred, frowning at the sand-papery sound of his own voice.

Sam laughed then, and Dean wondered whether his little brother had finally lost it and gone crazy once and for all.

"No," Sam said, sniffling and wiping at his tears-streaked face with a sleeve. "No, you're gonna be fine."

"You sure?" Dean inquired suspiciously, eliciting another laugh from Sam, and he had to consider that his brother sounded almost hysterical.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam reassured. "How you feeling?"

It was then that Dean came to realize that aside from a sore throat and a killer headache, there was no pain. The lack of a twisting knife in his chest and the easiness of his breathing had it all rushing back to him, and he blinked owlishly at Sam for a few moments before he decided to leave any further explanation for later, a more pressing matter having popped up into his mind.

"What day is it?" he asked.

Sam frowned.

"Uh… May 2nd."

A wide smile spread Dean's lips.

"Happy birthday, Sammy," he said around a yawn.

As he drifted off to a much needed sleep, Dean made a mental note to find out exactly what was going on with his brother first thing when he woke up, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam started to laugh, but he was also crying harder than ever.

TBC…


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Ha! I lied, there's more than just one chapter to go! LOL Actually, I thought there would be, but it came out a lot longer than I first had anticipated, so I had to split it. The final chapter is coming in a few days!

---

PART 16

"Sam, back off, I got it," Dean snapped irritably, and Sam let go of him, allowing him to complete the, according to the younger Winchester, apparently hard task of climbing out of the Impala on his own.

"Sam!" Dean said again a few moments later as he climbed the three steps leading to the door of their motel room.

"What?!" Sam snapped back, wondering exactly what nerve of the ever-self-sufficient Dean Winchester had he managed to hit this time.

"_Back off!_" Dean said again, and only then did Sam realize just how close to his brother he was standing. So close, in fact, that his chest almost touched Dean's back. After all, what if he fell?

He took a step back and waited more or less patiently as Dean opened the door.

"So," his brother said, throwing his jacket on a chair and opening the fridge. "You were saying we managed to stumble onto the only piece of Welsh folklore that can be found on this side of the Atlantic?" 

Sam took the offered beer hesitantly.

"You sure that's a good idea?" he said, nodding to the bottle Dean was holding in his own hand. "And do you want to hear it all now? Don't you want to rest a bit first?"

"Yes, I want to hear it now," Dean said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "And yes, it's a good idea." He promptly demonstrated his thesis by taking a long swig of his beer.

For some reason, Sam almost grimaced at the sight.

"But-" he tried.

"Sam," Dean interrupted pointedly, glaring at him, and Sam had to recede. 

"Okay, alright! Backing off," he said, sipping his own beer sharply. "So as I was saying, you had Gwrach-y-rhybin after you," he resumed his recap of the events.

"Which you explained being some sort of bitchier Banshee, right?"

"That's right," Sam nodded, still shivering a little at the memory of the black teeth and broken voice as the creature wailed out his brother's name.

"And what exactly was such a thing doing in South Dakota?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow.

"_Is_," Sam corrected.

"Sorry?"

"What _is_ such a thing doing in South Dakota," Sam said, somewhat embarrassedly. "She… uh… she's still here."

"Come again?" Dean said, blinking in astonishment.

"I haven't found a way to break the curse, yet," Sam admitted, disappointment burning in his chest.

"I'm still cursed?" Dean said, a small flicker of panic flashing through his eyes. It was gone so fast that Sam almost thought he had imagined it.

"You're not cursed," the younger Winchester reassured quickly. "The Albans are." 

"Who?"

"The Welsh family. Mr. Alban was a ghost."

Dean blinked one more time before frustration took over.  
"Sam, dude, start making sense, please! It's bad enough that we're dealing with a creature whose name is not even pronounceable."

"It's not that hard, Dean," Sam explained patiently. "See, the 'w' is hardly pronounced, and the 'ch' diphthong is much like-"

"Sam!"

Sam was the one to blink this time, snapping out of the fascinating realms of Welsh language.  
"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Sorry. I guess I'll start from the beginning." 

"Thanks a lot," Dean grumbled.

---

It took Sam a while to fill Dean into the details.

He pretended not to see the look of surprise that crossed his brother's face when he told him about their father's phone calls (he carefully avoided to say anything about John's suggestion of striking a bargain with the Gwrach-y-rhybin), and now watched him intently as the whole tale sank in.

Sam expected questions, anger, maybe a flicker of pain. What he did not expect was for Dean to blink in confusion at him for minutes before finally crying with affronted disbelief,

"I was saved by a _ghost_?!"

Sam burst out laughing.  
"Yeah."

Dean blinked again and stared at him, obviously waiting for his young brother to cut the bullshit and tell him what _really_ happened.

But it was the God-honest truth, of course, and Sam didn't say anything as he stared back.

"Dude, c'mon!" Dean finally snapped. "Spirits don't save hunters!"

Sam gave a small smile.   
"This one did," he said softly, feeling yet another pang of sorrow as he thought about Davis Alban and his death and life.

Dean was silent for a few moments, clearly stunned and trying to process it all.

"I barely woke up and we already got a job," he eventually grumbled. "There's no rest for heroes."

Sam felt a surge of almost irrational happiness, grateful and relieved beyond belief to see Dean so _alive_, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of the hunt.

But there was also a frown on his face, because he had no idea what job his brother was talking about.   
"Uh?" he said.

"We got a curse to try and break, right?" Dean smirked, and Sam found himself grinning back despite him not sharing Dean's same enthusiasm for hunts.

"So, what else does Dad know about this thing?" Dean asked, and if Sam thought he saw a flicker of _something_ (pain, anger, disappointment?) in his eyes as he mentioned their father, it was gone too quickly for the younger Winchester to identify it properly. 

"Nothing," he replied. "Or if he does, he didn't tell me."

Dean nodded, already taking out some papers and his cell phone.  
"All right, you call Dad and see if he knows anything useful, I'll get a hold of Caleb."

Sam stood still, watching as his brother moved around the room in a blur of eager activity. _Too_ eager, he realized then, and if Dean apparently not wanting to speak to their father wasn't enough to make alarm bells go off in his head, this surely was.

"Sam?" Dean enquired, staring eloquently at his unmoving brother.

Sam's features didn't twitch.  
"Are you all right?"

Dean rolled his eyes.  
"Sammy, I swear to God–"

"I don't mean physically," Sam interrupted pointedly.

He watched as Dean froze for a split second, surprise cracking his mask a little before it slipped right back in place.

"I'm fine." 

Sam sighed wearily.  
"Dean-"

"I said I'm fine, Sam," Dean cut him off harshly, the clenching of his jaw and the hard glitter in his eyes putting an end to the conversation. 

Scowling fiercely, Sam reached for his own cell phone, already knowing that the conversation that was about to take place wasn't going to improve his mood.

---

"Sammy?" 

Sam blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. His father hadn't called back: he had _picked up_. On the first ring. 

"Sam!"

He startled at the sudden bark, and he to his surprise and great dismay, he had to bite his lip to keep himself from snapping a "Yes sir!" right back.

"Uh…" he stuttered. "Yeah."

"Sam, are you boys all right?" 

His father's voice sounded rough with something that Sam quickly decided was worry, and if he only could see him, he would know that John was clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grasp, his heart thumping in his chest.

"Yeah, we're fine," Sam said, finally managing to regain some composure.

On the other end of the line, John Winchester sat down heavily and closed his eyes, breathing out a silent thank you. To what or who, he didn't know himself.

"Caleb doesn't know much," Dean informed as he flipped his phone closed. "Says he's gonna call us back: he'll look into it for us."

Sam nodded.   
"Dad doesn't know anything else, either."

He didn't need to add anything to that: they both knew that John _wouldn't_ look into it for them. Now that he knew Dean was safe, their man would disappear again, going back to be nothing more than a presence hiding behind coordinates until he decided to reappear into their lives for whatever reason would pop up into his head. Sam didn't voice his thoughts, because he knew they were also Dean's.

"Come on, Sam, let's go."

Sam was pulled out of his reverie by his brother's practical tone, and he looked up to see Dean already shrugging into his jacket.

He frowned.  
"Where are we going?"

"We'll pay a visit to your Alban friend," Dean said, looking around for the car keys. "I wanna hear his side, too. Maybe he'll tell us something we don't know, yet."

It was then that Sam decided to stop letting his brother's odd behavior slide and speak up.

"Dean, wait," he said, and Dean stopped at the door, turning to face him with a quizzical look. 

"What?"

"What's gotten into you?" Sam asked, soft and yet firm enough that Dean would know he was not letting him walk out of this one.

Dean frowned back.   
"Nothing's gotten into me," he said, scoffing a little. 

Sam stared at him, letting all his concern flood his features.  
"Dean," he said pointedly.

"Sam." 

They stared at each other for long minutes, neither backing down, until Sam finally snorted in frustration.

"You're fresh out of the hospital, and here you are already throwing yourself into this thing as if nothing else matters," he said.

"What else _does_ matter, Sam?" Dean snapped in annoyance. "We gotta stop this thing. And I'm perfectly healthy, I don't need to take it easy. Now will you stop worrying and help me with the job?" 

"I know we have to stop it," Sam said with a sigh. "But I've rarely seen you this edgy on a hunt before, and it's just… weird."

Dean raised an eyebrow.  
"What's weird with a hunter wanting to hunt?"

Sam knew then that no matter how much he pushed, Dean wouldn't budge and talk to him. Not this time. So he threw his hands in the air and finally complied to his brother's request.

Dean held the door open and watched as Sam walked towards the Impala. No matter how hard Sam tried, he wouldn't give in. He couldn't. He couldn't look into his brother's eyes and tell him that death brought nothing. Mom and Jessica weren't waiting on the other side, there was only darkness. 

TBC…


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Well, guys, it's finally done!! Phew! What a ride! It's been a long haul, and I wanna thank all of you for sticking with this story. I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. This was my first Supernatural fic and I was very anxious with every chapter I'd post. Granted, I'm anxious whenever I get to post any other story, but this was just... well, kinda special to me, what with being the first and all. You guys have been really supportive and you went through all my delays without hitting me with a baseball bat, for which I'm really grateful. LOL  
Seriously though, thank you so much! I hope you will enjoy the last chapter.

Part 17

Tom Alban, Dean decided, was exactly the kind of guy he'd expect his brother to get along with.

His blue eyes were so clear that he couldn't have managed a decent lie if he tried (Dean really didn't envy him for that), he had a ready smile that just oozed friendliness, and had greeted them with the most enthusiastic "Hey guys!" Dean had ever heard.

He had also set two large burgers in front of them as soon as they were seated at the table in the back, saying they were on the house, of which the older Winchester admittedly wasn't complaining.

"So, Dean, how are you feeling?" the man asked as he sat down across the table. "You look good."

"I _feel_ good," Dean replied warily, picking up a fry.

Tom Alban was also treating him like he had known him all his life, which was utterly unnerving, seeing as how he'd never even met the guy before. He was also watching him as he'd expect him to keel over and die any second.

Tom Alban, Dean decided, was extremely annoying, other than nosy. But he did serve some killer burgers, Dean had to give it to him as he dug into his own.

"We wanted to talk to you, about the curse," Sam said, his tone soft and compassionate.

Tom looked curiously at the both of them.   
"What about it?"

"We want to know a little more," Dean said. "Basically, everything you know."

"Hasn't Sam told you?"

Dean smirked dryly.  
"I'd like to hear your version."

"Skeptic, are you?" Tom said, and Dean almost choked on his coke. Skeptic. Him. He had tried the whole thing first hand, there was no way he could be skeptic about this one. "Fair enough," the older man continued with a shrug, and then proceeded to tell them everything he knew about Gwrach-y-rhybin's in general, about this particular one, and the curse hanging over his family.

By the time he was done, both Sam and Dean had finished eating, and they were presently looking at him with somewhat disappointed expressions over their features. Fact was, Tom Alban didn't know anything more about the whole mess than they did themselves.

"What?" the man asked, looking from one downcast face to the other in confusion.

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us something we didn't already know," Sam said after a moment.

Tom frowned a little, studying them both intently.  
"Why? Now that you've stopped it from affecting other people, what does it matter?"

"We want to stop it from affecting _you_, as well," Sam informed him with a small smile.

Tom stared at them, and then he smiled bitterly, shaking his head.  
"You won't make it. Curses aren't meant to be broken. Believe me, we've tried that before."

"You didn't try hard enough."

"Dean," Sam warned softly, surprised at the harsh tone in which his brother had spoken, at the hard glitter in his eyes as he now stared defiantly at Tom Alban.

"Your father was dead," Dean said. "I wanna know exactly how he fooled everyone into believing the contrary."

Sam stared curiously back at Tom. That was a matter he had intended to discuss, too, although he had imagined the conversation developing in slightly more friendly tones.

The man hesitated, and Sam could tell that he was considering lying, or tell them something along the lines of "None of your business", but one look at Dean's hard features had him go for the truth, for which Sam was secretly grateful: he did not want to think about how ugly things could have gotten if Tom had really tried to lie to Dean in his present state.

"Necromancy." 

Sam blinked when the answer came, and he suddenly wasn't sure he liked the truth that much anymore.

"Excuse me?" he said, eyes going wide, while Dean clenched his jaw, not looking surprised in the least.

"He… he had me perform a ritual that would bind his soul to earth."

Tom had the good grace to look ashamed, which Sam strongly suspected was the only think keeping Dean from punching the man. That, and the fact that every ounce of his brother's strength was currently being used to try and restrain the anger Sam could see pulsating through Dean's jaw. 

"What kind of ritual?" Dean asked, voice dangerously devoid of any emotion.

"Uh…"

"Tom, do you have a book?" Sam asked.

Tom did, and he disappeared somewhere for a few minutes, returning with a small leather-bound notebook, which he handed out sheepishly.

Sam felt a tug at his guts as he reached out to take it into his hands. It bore a sickening resemblance to the one he had found in Roy LeGrange's house back in Nebraska, hidden behind a Bible.

It hadn't gone lost to Sam back then, the irony of it, how he had life and death and faith in both light and darkness all there, on one single shelf.

He forced himself to snap out of his gloomy reverie and leafed through those new pages until he found a bookmarked one. 

"Is it this one?" he asked, looking briefly up at Tom, who nodded mutely.

Sam scanned the ritual intently, relieved when he found it involved no human bones and only a very small amount of blood, therefore requiring no murder.

But it was still necromancy; something dark, something evil. Something that played with bodies and souls, and Sam knew Dean wouldn't take it kindly. 

Sure enough, the younger Winchester watched as his brother's features darkened further, Dean looking up with blazing eyes once he was done examining the page himself.

Sam noticed Tom squirming uncomfortably in his chair under Dean's flaming gaze. 

"How did you pull it off?" the older Winchester growled menacingly.

Tom stared back in confusion.  
"Uh?"

"It says here that it takes up to three months for the bound soul to acquire a visible, tangible appearance. How did you pull it off until your Daddy got his illusory body?"

"I… I just told everyone who'd ask that he went to visit some friends."

"For three months?! And they believed you?" Sam asked somewhat incredulously.

Tom shrugged.  
"It's amazing what people would believe when they don't really want to be bothered in the first place."

"You son of a bitch."

The screeching of the chair as it was pulled back and Dean stood did nothing to drown out the furious hiss coming from his mouth, which echoed loud and clear and scary in both Sam and Tom's ears. 

"Dean!" Sam cried sharply, grabbing his brother's arm in a restraining grip. "Sit down."

But Dean wasn't listening, his anger finally getting the best of him as he snarled in Tom's face.

"You don't mess with this stuff. Who the hell are you to decide ho lives and who dies?! Your father was dead, and he should have stayed dead. What fucking right do you have?! Hasn't your family messed around with death enough?!"

"Dean, stop it!" Sam said, standing up, as well. "It's not the Albans' fault this curse has happened."

"The hell it's not, Sammy," Dean raged, wrenching sharply out of Sam's grasp. "You really think they couldn't have stopped it if they really wanted to? You don't mess with necromancy! You don't mess with Reapers and Grwach-y-rhybins or whatever the hell the thing's name is… You don't mess with death!"

Sam stared at Dean in shock throughout his tirade, and the more his brother's voice rose, the more he came to realize exactly what all this was about. Dean was tired. Exhausted, in fact. He was tired of seeing evil have its way, tired of watching as people helped it out, messing with life and death as if it was the most natural thing to do, playing God's part, engaging in a game that was far greater than them and definitely not theirs to play. He was tired of seeing people die because of other people's mistakes, and Sam knew that Layla was in there somewhere, too, behind Dean's anger, amongst the pain lurking far and deep into Dean's eyes.

"Dean…" he began softly, only to be interrupted by Tom Alban's angry voice.

"It was no selfish act," the man spoke, glaring fiercely back at Dean. "My father tried to watch out for his family. He brought another curse upon his own soul in order to do that."

Dean stared at the man icily.  
"I don't feel sorry for him."

"Dean," Sam said again, sternly. "Enough. Why don't you tell us the whole story, Tom?" he demanded then, looking back at the man, satisfied when Dean begrudgingly sat back down.

Tom looked angrily at both of them for a few moments before finally giving a curt nod. 

"It happened about eight months ago," he began. "My father and I were driving back home from Aberdeen and it was raining like crazy. The headlights weren't of much use and before I knew what was happening, I lost control of the car. When I woke up it only took me one look to know that my dad wasn't going to make it. I was about to call for an ambulance but he told me there'd be no use." 

Dean refrained from saying that, so far, it was probably the thing with the most sense he knew Davis Alban to have said.

"He begged me to perform that ritual," Tom said quietly. "So I did."

"And is necromancy a skill that runs in the family?" Dean asked coldly.

Sam was about to reprimand him again when to his astonishment, Tom nodded.

"Everyone knew how to perform the easiest ritual, starting from my great-grandfather," the man said. "When the curse hit us, we set out to find a way to escape."

"By messing around with dark stuff."

"Dean," Sam warned again, exasperated by his brother's behavior.

"Yes," Tom said harshly, his blue eyes snapping up to stare at Dean in anger. "Look, I don't really give a fuck about what you think. We were trapped. We were only trying to survive."

"Your 'efforts' got twenty people killed!" Dean yelled, slamming his fist down onto the table and getting up on his feet.

"We didn't know how to stop grandpa!" Tom screamed back, shooting up as well.

"The hell you didn't!"

It was a roar. Tom Alban physically winced, and even Sam found himself too stunned to do anything but sit there and gape at the enraged form of his brother.

"All you had to do was waste your grandfather's spirit, and I can't quite believe none of you had any idea of how to do that," Dean growled.

"We didn't!" Tom defended, but there was a hint of panic in his eyes and a guilty pallor on his face that told both Sam and Dean otherwise.

"You could've trapped him," Dean said, leaning over the table so that he was staring hard at the other man.

"How?!"

A feral grin spread Dean's lips, and Sam knew things were about to get out of hand.  
"You tell me," the older Winchester said. "Trapping a spirit is necromancy business."

Sam had to admit that his brother had a point, and that was why he didn't do anything to stop the relentless interrogatory and merely watched as Tom Alban sat back down and looked forlornly at the wooden surface of the table.

"We didn't want to," he spoke quietly. "He was still a member of the family."

"He was _dead_," Dean said pointedly.

"Would _you_ waste your brother if he was to turn into some kind of evil spirit?" Tom spat angrily.

Dean froze. His whole frame went so rigid that for a moment Sam thought he was going to leap and break the man's jaw with a single punch.

"This is not about me or Dean," Sam spoke, softly, quietly. And yet, his voice carried more steel and authority than any shout could ever do. "This is about you and your family and people getting caught in the middle. Are you telling us that you guys knew how to stop this all along but never had the nerve to actually do something about it?"

Sam's accusatory stare was far more intimidating than his brother's furious one, and Tom found himself looking away.

"Dad finally got around to decide to act upon it," he said after a moment of tense silence. "But by the time he did, he was dying." 

"And he asked you to make a ghost out of him so that he could stay around and save the world," Dean interrupted icily. "How noble of him."

"He wanted _me_ to do it," Tom replied flatly, glaring back at the hunter. "That's why he stayed around. To convince me to trap grandpa's spirit. But I couldn't do it, I didn't want to do that to him."

"So you left all those people to die."  
Sam's voice was still calm and controlled, but it was now seething with such anger that even Dean turned to stare at him with a frown.

"I was just trying to come up with another solution!" Tom defended again.

It took only one shared look for both Dean and Sam to know that they had nothing else to do there. Dean took the small book and tucked it into his jacket.

"If we hear about anything else going on around here, we'll be seeing you," he warned, green eyes boring into guilty, scared blue ones. "Sam, you comin'?" he asked once he reached the doorway and turned to see Sam hadn't moved.

The younger Winchester stood there for a few minutes, regarding Tom Alban with a mixture of pity and rage and sadness.

"Goodbye, Tom," he said, turning to follow his brother out of the room.

Tom watched them go and let himself slump further down onto his chair, knowing that whenever the Gwrach-y-rhybin came to call his name, he would deserve it. 

---

"You alright, Sammy?"

Dean spared a sideways glance at his silent brother. He knew exactly what was going on in Sam's head, but he wanted Sam to voice it himself.

The younger Winchester cleared his throat to allow his voice to float out after long minutes of disuse.  
"I just can't believe it." 

There it was. Dean had to fight off a bitter knowing grin at the desolate, disbelieving, almost lost tone that was currently marring Sam's voice. It made him sound younger, and Dean gripped the wheel tighter, wanting to hurt the Alban's all over again for this new reminder to his brother about how nothing and none could be really trusted except for evil.

"I mean, they seemed so... afraid." Sam's voice dragged him out of his purposes of murder. "How could they turn to necromancy?"

"I think they did it exactly because of how scared they were," Dean replied grimly, while he was reminded of another conversation.

"To cross a line like that, a preacher's wife. Black magic, murder. Evil."

"Desperate."

There were so many similarities between what had happened back in Nebraska all those months ago and what had happened there in Gettysburg that Dean felt almost physically ill.

"You think... You think what made Davis change his mind and go against his father was the death of his wife?"

Dean was glad that driving required keeping your eyes more or less fixed on the road, because otherwise he would never have managed to look away from Sam's gaze right then. It looked a lot like the one Sam would fix him with when he was a kid and he'd ask Dean why couldn't they have a mother just like everyone else.  
He wouldn't ask that question often. No matter how young he'd be, Sam had always been adult enough to be extra careful around it.

Still, even those few times were enough to make Dean's heart sink low in the pit of his stomach and his throat close up completely.  
To this day, that look in Sam's eyes affected him like nothing else could, begging with Dean for answers he didn't have.

"I mean, Tom refused to do anything even after his own mother..."

God, Dean hated Tom Alban. No matter how amazing his burgers were, he hated him with a passion.

"It doesn't matter, Sammy. What matters is that someone decided to do something in the end."

It wasn't a satisfactory answer, not by a long shot, but it was the only one he had.

Sam nodded mutely and went back to stare at the window, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. If there was anything Dean Winchester was proud of, it was being able to pick up on the slightest change of his brother's mood.

Presently, he had known something else had entered Sam's mind the instant it did. He also knew that whatever it was, he wouldn't like it. Which was why now he reached out, turned the volume of the radio up of a few notches, and waited for Sam to talk rather than being the one to push him.

---

He didn't have to wait long. Sam barely made it past the doorway of their motel room before he sat down on one of the beds and fixed Dean with that puppy dog 'we-gotta-talk-I-don't-know-how-to-tell-you-whatever-it-is' look of his.

"Dean… something… There's something else you have to know."

Dean felt the sudden urge to avoid the subject. At all costs. He wanted to say that he didn't want to know, that he had yet to process everything he already knew, and please, let him have a break.

But he didn't say any of it. He shrugged out of his jacket and leaned back against the kitchenette counter.

"You don't remember anything, do you?"

The look on Sam's face suggested that he hoped his brother would say otherwise. But Dean really had no recollection of anything after confessing his guilt to Sam (something he was already regretting strongly), and he was forced to shake his head.

"No." 

"Well…" Sam licked his lips nervously. "Something happened, with you and me."

Dean spent the next ten minutes trying to follow his brother's tale as the younger Winchester tried to explain about glass walls, corporeal Banshees and some sort of weird communication with Dean himself while he was in fact still in a coma.

"Uh…"  
Dean's frown was deep as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard, to no avail.  
"What are you saying, Sammy?"

"I don't know." Sam sighed. "I don't know what happened. I mean, I was seeing both you and that thing, you were seeing both me and that thing, Davis was just seeing it, and the doctor didn't see anything at all. According to him, the monitor never even went off."

Sam looked lost, and Dean had to admit that he had no clue about any of it, either.

"Maybe…" 

Dean's head jerked up as Sam trailed off, the fear lingering in his brother's voice and eyes having alarm bells go off in his mind.

"What?"

Sam didn't reply.

"Sam, what?"

Dean's stomach clenched as soon as his brother looked back at him after having averted his gaze. It wasn't fear that Dean could see staring back at him in Sam's eyes now. It was raw terror.

"Maybe it's some sort of new ability." The younger Winchester's voice sounded rough, and it scraped like sandpaper over Dean's ears. "Maybe I get to have this, other than the visions."

Dean arched an eyebrow.  
"What, seeing almost dead people as if they're all wide awake and coherent?" He ignored Sam's flinch at the 'almost dead' remark and went on with a scoff. "Come on, Sam, this isn't 'True Calling'." 

"But I saw you, Dean!" Sam cried, fear and confusion mingling into anger. "Even before the Gwrach-y-rhybin came. I _saw_ you. Behind that wall. You begged me to get you out of there!"

"That was a dream," Dean reasoned firmly. "You were unconscious, you said so yourself."

"And you brought me back! I don't believe in coincidences, Dean, neither do you. And the wall was no dream: it was there all the time."

Dean ran a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.  
"No. No no no. No. There's no way it was another psychic thing, okay?" he declared, hoping that what sounded like despair to his ears might pass like stubbornness to Sam. "It was just…"

"What?" Sam interrupted defiantly. "Just an episode? Something that won't happen again? Because you said that about me moving that closet at Max's house, too." 

"And I don't recall you moving any other piece of furniture with your mind after that, did you?" Dean almost yelled back.

He prayed Sam would drop it. Just this time, just for a while. He was still trying to figure out both the visions and the temporary telekinesis, he couldn't deal with another psychic power. Not now.

But if the look on his brother's face was any indication of it, Sam had no intention of dropping it.

Escape came for Dean in the form of his cell phone going off in that precise moment, something that made him briefly wonder whether maybe there _was_ a God after all.

He ignored Sam's glare, which clearly said something along the lines of, 'don't-you-dare-take-that-we're-not-done-yet', and flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"Dean! Hey, it's good to hear from you." Caleb's voice flew familiar and relieved into his ear, and Dean grinned.

"You only heard from me a few hours ago. What, worried about me, old man?"

"Shut up."

The grumpiness crept back into Caleb's tone, and Dean welcomed it. He couldn't stand people treating him like he was about to break, no matter how close a call it had been.

"Listen, I looked into any bit of information I could come across, but I couldn't find anything," Caleb informed him. "It seems there's just no way to break the curse over this family."

"Good." The feral growl was out of his mouth before Dean could stop himself.

"Excuse me?"

"Uh… I mean, okay, thanks Caleb."

Fact was, as far as he knew, Tom Alban had no wife or kids, and at this point Dean thought the man deserved whatever the Gwrach-y-rhybin had in store for him.

"I need you to research something else for me," he said then, ignoring Sam's puzzled look.

He told Caleb everything. About the mysterious glass wall that not even the Gwrach-y-rhybin could cross, about his begging with Sam, about everyone seeing different things.

He could feel Sam's eyes boring into his back the whole time, and he know that talking about this to anyone else was the last thing his brother would have wanted. But Dean needed answers, possibly reassurances, and Caleb was the most immediate, reliable source they had.

He didn't even realize how tightly he had been gripping the phone until he had explained everything and he was suddenly aware of the tension in his knuckles.

"Well, there's no need for research," Caleb said. "I know what it is."

"What is it?" Dean asked, making sure to keep his back to Sam so that his brother wouldn't see the fear in his eyes.

"I think it's an episode of unconscious empathy."

"Uh?"  
Dean had no idea of what it was that Caleb was talking about, and so he didn't know whether he should be relieved or just grab Sam and run as far as they could.

"Is Sam empathic on a regular basis?"

"Uh…"   
He also couldn't remember the last time he was reduced to inarticulate blabbers.

"Don't worry, Dean, empathy is nothing supernatural, despite a few scientists believing it's some sort of psychic ability," Caleb said. "Bullshit, in my opinion," he spat, and Dean's racing heart slowed a little. "It's actually pretty normal amongst very sensitive people."

"Uh… well, he…" Dean cleared his throat. "He does pick up on people's emotions pretty easy."

"There you have it, then." Caleb sounded relieved. "It was unconscious empathy." 

"Mind telling me what the hell are you talking about?" Dean snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and a forefinger.

"It's something that occurs sometimes between empathic people and someone they have a very strong bond with," Caleb explained patiently, totally unfazed by Dean's anxious tone. "They can pick up the other person's emotions even if said person is unconscious or doesn't know about those emotions on a conscious level. I think because his perception of reality was already slightly altered, what with the ghost who didn't look like a ghost and a creature with Banshee quality being around, this event translated into images into Sam's head."

"Hang on a second," Dean said, feeling slightly dizzy with it all. "So Sam saw it all because of this empathy thing?"

"Exactly."

"It makes no sense. Why would everyone see different things?"

"It's very simple," Caleb said, and he suddenly sounded a lot like a parent trying to explain to a child something that wasn't meant for children to understand. It grated on Dean's nerves. "You were able to see Sam because of your brother's empathy and the Gwrach-y-rhybin because it came for you. Sam was able to see you because of his empathy and the Gwrach-y-rhybin because that's what _you_ were seeing at the time. It was corporeal to him because he was the only real presence in the room at the time, the only one who was fully bound to earth. Davis Alban could see the Gwrach-y-rhybin because he was dead, he could see Sam for obvious reasons, and he couldn't see you awake because the real you was unconscious and he had no connection with you. The Gwrach-y-rhybin couldn't see Sam because he's not dead and it wasn't there for him. Finally, the doctor couldn't see a thing because he was completely into the real world. Everything clear?"

Dean's head was definitely spinning with information by then, and he could only hope he'd mange to convey it all into some sort of understandable explanation for Sam later on.

"What about the wall?" he asked after a moment spent trying to collect himself.

"I think that was some kind of unconscious materialization of your fear. You were probably afraid back then."

Dean didn't deny it. Fear was the only thing he could remember about those hours.

"Which is why none could go past it but you when you reached out to pull Sam back into consciousness," Caleb said again.

"How did _that_ happen?" Dean enquired with a frown.

"Same way the rest of it did. You're probably a little empathic yourself when it comes to Sam. Or maybe it was just Sam's mind translating his own worry for you. I don't really know which one."

It all sounded pretty reasonable to Dean. Crazy, yes, and it still didn't make much sense, but reasonable nonetheless. And most of all, it sounded reassuring enough.

"So there's nothing supernatural going on?"  
He needed to hear it again, just one more confirmation, just one more word that would put his trouble thoughts at rest. 

"No, Dean. Sam's safe. You both are."

There was a smile in Caleb's voice that had a small matching one creep onto Dean's lips.

"All right," he said. "Thanks Caleb. For everything."

"Don't mention it," the older hunter replied readily. "You boys take care of yourselves."

"We will."

The line went dead then, and Dean took a few moments to let the relief sink deep before turning around to face Sam's anxious stare.

"Caleb says it's unconscious empathy." 

His announcement was met with a blank stare.  
"Uh?" 

"You don't know what it is, college boy?" Dean grinned wickedly.

Sam's frown promptly turned into a scowl.

Dean explained everything as best as he could, and he was a little put out when Sam didn't appear nearly as confused as he had been. Psychic little brothers apparently held the power of making their ordinary older brothers feel remarkably stupid. Not that Dean was ever going to admit it out loud anyway.

"So it's safe, isn't it?" Sam asked, a hint of fear still lingering in his eyes.  
Dean's smile softened into reassurance.  
"Yeah, Sammy. It's safe." 

Sam exhaled slowly, and Dean could see relief was quite overwhelming for him, as well.

At this point, there was only one thing Dean could think of.  
"What do you say we get the hell outta here?"

---

Putting Gettysburg, South Dakota, in their review mirror was something they were both more than ready for.

Sam knew he would be dreaming of screeching monitors and glass walls for many weeks to come. He knew his ears would be echoing with Dean's pleas every time the highway would be silent enough.

He also knew the Alban's would be popping up in there somewhere, too. Cold, uncaring, scared. Desperate. And he would be wondering who the real Davis Alban was: the kind, weary spirit he had met, or the terrified, resigned man he had seen reflected in Tom's eyes. 

Amongst all of this though, he would be look at Dean and thank God that he was still with him.

On his part, Dean knew he wouldn't be dreaming. The thoughts and memories would creep in during long drives and quiet nights, and he would turn the volume of the radio up as far as it could go to try and silence them. It wouldn't work, and he would sing songs in his head to smother it all. 

That wouldn't work, either, and he would be forced to start working on yet another layer of his mask. A grin wide enough and remarks witty enough to cover it all up, a veil over his eyes thick enough to hide one new burden, one new secret that he had to keep from Sam: there was nothing on the other side.

No, Dean wouldn't be dreaming. He'd be too firmly anchored to reality.

"What about the curse?"

He looked up after tossing one of their duffel bags into the trunk to find Sam staring at him with a mixture of sadness and lingering hope.

Dean stared back, slamming the truck shut.  
"You don't break a curse."

**THE END**


End file.
